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THE MAN WITH 
THE FACE 


by 

ARTHUR H. G. JULIER 

4V-«>vv-tL/v*^ 


Sr 


“But the Lord said unto Samuel, look not on his counte¬ 
nance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused 
him; for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on 
the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” 

1. Samuel, l6, 7 . 


“Their wives may love them, and their children, too, and 
their country honor them, but there’s something about a man 
with his face gone that hurts the eyes of the people. They 
don’t want him in their homes nor where they can see him.—” 
Sir Arbuthnot Lane (quoted in interview). 



4 



1923 

THE STRATFORD CO., Publishers 

Boston, Massachusetts 













Copyright, 1923 

The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
Boston, Mass. 


* 

l» » 


The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 


DEC 17 l 


©Cl A7 06639 

"VyO / 



Contents 


Chapter Pa 0 e 

1 . Mr. Cobb Introduces Us. 1 

II. Bellamy Enlightens Us.8 

III. Mr. Mandell Eludes Us.23 

IV. Helen Hires a Detective.27 

“Man Looketh on the Outward Appearance” 

V. Mr. Mortell Introduces Himself . . • • 3 * 

VI. Mr. Mortell Learns More of His Own History . 44 

VII. Mr. Mortell Accepts a Past. 54 

VIII. Helen Explores.66 

IX. The Atmosphere. 77 


X. Mr. Mortell Makes Many Friends and One Enemy . 93 


XI. There is Always a Way to Get Around . . . ioi 

XII. An Explanation for Everything . . . .106 

XIII. The Boldest Stroke is the Safest . . . . H 5 

XIV. Standing’s Bad Heart. 1 1 9 

XV. A Surgeon and a Man . . . . . .129 

XVI. Pa and Ma and Etta. 139 

XVII. Mortell Thinks.. 

XVIII. Standing Sees a Ghost. 155 

XIX. A Short Cut to the Right Road . . . .164 

XX. The Sick Man.176 

XXI. A Role Incarnate.183 

XXII. Mortell Decides to Stay.189 








CHAPTER I. 


Mr. Cobb Introduces Us 

M R. COBB, conspicuous for his clothes, his poise, 
and twenty-two years of confidence in himself, 
walked unswervingly up the Parkway. Though 
his feet touched solid earth, his whole being moved in a 
higher plane; for it was an evening in June, of soft Lake 
breezes full of the fragrance of Spring flowers and the 
immortal Barcarole which some pretty maiden was hum¬ 
ming as she drifted along the Lagoon, tantalizingly near. 
Two chains of big white domes, like romantic moons, lighted 
his way; and hidden in the tree tops and shrubbery, a 
chorus of tiny voices was singing of life and love. 

Mr. Cobb turned neither to the right nor left. Now 
and then, some person near middle age, paused to look 
at him a second time. But Mr. Cobb did not fear, for 
he was the bearer of other things than a serious purpose. 
A genuine Bangkok sat upon the back of his head; a suit 
of the latest Cubist’s checks, with trousers artistically short, 
revealing two long pointed tans and lavender hose, adorned 
his being; and a cane went with him, huge and ponderous, 
that in certain positions gave the appearance of another 
leg, so closely in shape and dimensions, did it match the 
real. He had faith in his tailor’s discrimination and did 
not underestimate the value of correct attire. 

However, Mr. Cobb’s thoughts were not of clothes. 
During the day, an overworked telephone operator had 
[i] 



The Man With the Face 


given him the wrong number; and when, instead of the 
harsh, impatient, masculine response, he heard a soft in¬ 
viting girlish voice at the other end, he drew in a deep 
breath and settled down forthwith into an animated verbal 
flirtation. Never had the office appeared so small and 
prosaic, and, to-night, he had left the humdrum of life to 
fare forth with a poet’s dream into some wonderful and 
romantic adventure. 

He recalled with particular satisfaction his clever 
manoeuvre in learning her identity without revealing his 
own. They had exchanged a laugh over her suggestive 
name — Mabel Bride, and he still believed it was a wonder¬ 
ful augury of what was to be. Now he had come almost 
to the spot, her own selection, corner of Fullerton and the 
Parkway, where he was to meet this dream lady of the 
telephone in her white serge and sailor hat. 

Nervously, he drew out his watch. He had timed it 
beautifully. So he turned the corner and ran into — a 
thousand young ladies in white serge and sailor hats and 
a thousand young men in Bangkoks! The whole street 
was full of people, young and old, a veritable multitude, 
good naturedly jostling one another, swaying back and 
forth, struggling to approach a huge old fashioned mansion 
that frowned down upon them across the line of special 
policemen and automobiles coming and going. 

Curiosity is a very contagious and compelling impulse; 
and young Cobb, after learning the occasion for this near 
riot, speedily forgot his own “affair” and never understood 
that “Mabel Bride” and her selection of this particular 
rendezvous was the impromptu improvisement of a clever 
young lady. For it was no ordinary wedding reception in 
one of the most exclusive North Side homes that drew the 

[2] 




Mr. Cobb Introduces Us 


crowd, and the contracting parties were no ordinary people, 
as Cobb soon discovered. 

“Yes, he is positively the ugliest looking man in Chi¬ 
cago,” Cobb heard a young fellow, whom he was later to 
know as a lawyer’s clerk, telling his companion, a young 
lady also in white serge and sailor hat. 

The young lady shook her head deprecatingly and her 
voice was full of sorrow. 

“And she is so beautiful. There is no exaggeration 
about it. I’ve seen her picture a dozen times, and once 
I saw her right here in her own yard.” 

The clerk appeared to enjoy her discomfiture. 

“You’d feel a lot worse if you saw his picture, but 
that is something you can’t do.” 

“I don’t see why.” 

“You are not the only one, but Mr. Ralph Mandell 
does not believe in pictures, especially of himself, and no 
one else has been able to change his mind.” 

“It ought to be easy enough,” the maiden insisted. 
“He’s a big criminal lawyer, isn’t he?” 

“Not exactly a criminal lawyer,” the youth carefully 
corrected; “he’s a corporation lawyer.” 

“Well, what’s the difference?” 

Everyone laughed, even the well informed clerk. 
Cobb was absorbed and had elected himself one of the party 
by right of position and participation in the conversation. 

“Can’t they sketch him in court?” he respectfully 
asked. 

“Always has his back to the audience. Always rides 
in a limousine and has a big black chauffeur who walks 
ahead of him when he has to go through a crowd,” the 
clerk laconically explained. 


[3] 



The Man With the Face 


“Why, I never knew there was such a fellow.” 

“Never heard of Mandell, the biggest corporation 
lawyer in Chicago?” 

“Oh, of course,” Cobb hastened to admit, “I’ve heard 
of him, naturally enough, but I never knew he was so 
homely.” 

“He’s got a pretty name, anyway,” one of the girls 
interrupted. 

“So much the worse for his face,” the clerk laughed. 
“He’s going in for society evidently, and the public may 
be given an opportunity, at last, to view his classical fea¬ 
tures.” 

“Oh, I’m with a corporation, you know,” Cobb was 
particular to add, “but I don’t have charge of the legal 
end, so I’ve never visited court very often.” 

“Better arrange to come with me some day, and, 
likely enough, you may be rewarded with a peep at the 
elusive individual.” 

I d like to,” Cobb assented, and an immediate ex¬ 
change of cards followed and a formal introduction to 
the ladies of the party. 

“Pardon me,” purred a little, wrinkled faced, shab¬ 
bily dressed, middle aged man through a conspicuously 
coarse moustache — the very incarnation of the unusual 
in knowledge I heard you gentlemen express a desire 
to view Mr. Mandell’s likeness. Well, here it is in this 
extra edition of the Dispatch;” and, with a wide flourish, 
he delivered a copy of the precious paper. 

“I never read the Dispatch,” the clerk carefully ex¬ 
plained, grudgingly accepting the proffered sheet. “No 
doubt, it’s a fake.” 


[4] 




Mr. Cobb Introduces Us 


His doubt was instantly turned into genuine astonish¬ 
ment. 

“Well, I’m beat,” he exclaimed, passing the paper to 
Cobb. “Will somebody please pinch me? How in the 
world did they do it?” 

Not even the proprietor could answer his question. 
The Boulevard was light as day and Cobb held the page 
with both hands so everyone could see it. Never had he 
beheld a more repulsive countenance. The ears, while not 
unduly large, projected nearly straight from the head. 

“Looks like a cyclone struck his nose,” someone be¬ 
hind commented. 

The nose was of proper proportion but bent far to 
one side nearly flush with the face. The upper lip was 
completely cleft exposing a row of widely separated, canine 
like teeth in the raw opening. 

“Where’s his chin?” one of the students asked. 

It could hardly be described as receding. It was wide 
enough but displaced backward and downward. 

“Looks more like a hump on the neck than a chin,” 
another remarked. 

The clerk offered an explanation of the deformity. 

“Some of the boys think his jaw must have been frac¬ 
tured and the front segment driven back,” he volunteered, 
“but the boss himself doesn’t talk a great deal about the 
subject,” he added with a suggestive laugh. 

“Don’t see ho\y he can talk at all with such a phono¬ 
graph,” another wit chuckled. 

“Oh, he can’t open his mouth very wide — he’s not 
a good specimen of the purely mechanical talker, the 
clerk continued, “but he’s got a fine physique and knowl¬ 
edge and ideas, all right.” 


[5] 



The Man With the Face 


“Looks like he was pretty mad,” Cobb finally ven¬ 
tured. 

“No doubt he was if he knew what was being done. 
Must have hobbled and chained him. The fellows at court 
call him, ‘the Man with The Face.’ ” 

“Whew, he sure has a right to the name. I don’t 
see how a fellow with such a face can get a practice or 
anything else but abuse,” Cobb observed. 

“He has a practice all right. Never mind how ugly 
he looks, he’s got the grey matter. He’s rich too — power¬ 
fully rich. They all give it to him, believe me.” 

“I am sorry for his pretty new wife, anyway,” one 
of the girls murmured. 

The clerk made an impatient gesture. “You never 
can tell,” he said. “Maybe, she thinks he’s handsome.” 

“Perhaps, she likes the looks of his pocketbook,” the 
proprietor of the yellow journal conjectured. “I read 
that he saved her father from bankruptcy and settled a 
half million on her as a pre-nuptial gift.” 

“What did I tell you?” the clerk demanded. “He 
could do that and not feel the strain at all.” 

“Money will get you anything,” Cobb philosophized; 
and then, for want of a better subject, they turned their 
attention to the house. 

“Wonder why they don’t light those lights in the 
yard?” Cobb heard a neighbor inquire. 

“Have they got lights there?” 

“Sure, the yard is full of electric bulbs.” 

“Funny.” 

“Wonder why they don’t come from church — it’s 
time.” 

“The house is pretty dark for a reception.” 

[6] 




Mr, Cobb Introduces Us 


“The callers don’t seem to be staying long.” 

So the talk went; and at last, as if by common consent, 
the crowd began to lose interest in the psychological aspect 
of the strange union and began to take more interest in 
the tangible demonstration to which it was an uninvited 
witness. 

Something was wrong in the house. No more auto¬ 
mobiles were coming and. the line was rapidly shortening. 
Now and then, another light was turned off and the big 
mansion looked gloomier and more exclusive than ever. 

The guests were leaving in groups and only the first 
floor was illuminated. But the crowd was not easily dis¬ 
couraged, and finally when the last limousine was closed 
and on its way, the patient watchers in the street came 
into their reward. A newspaper truck dashed noisily 
into their midst, and a dozen sprightly newsboys leaped to 
the ground, and filled the air with their clamor. 

“Extra Dispatch — extra paper here — double extra 
paper — all about the North Side Wedding and the miss¬ 
ing bridegroom. Extra.” 

Mr. Cobb walked slowly down the Parkway. There 
was no moon, no Barcarole, no music in the air. Mr. 
Cobb was thinking about life. 


[7] 




CHAPTER II. 


Bellamy Enlightens Us 

W HILE Mr. Cobb, deep in the disappointment and 
mystery of the occasion, was trudging down the 
Parkway, a very unromantic and disquieting taxi¬ 
cab boldly approached him. Mr. Cobb did not regard 
this alien conveyance, else he might have been impressed 
by the passengers, two young men in faultless and expensive 
evening attire who seemed as much out of place in the 
taxicab as the taxicab itself in this realm of the limousine. 

However, Mr. Cobb did not pause nor look back; 
and in such an obstinate and obtuse manner, did he walk 
right out of this history. We regret this abrupt termina¬ 
tion of a valuable companionship, but Mr. Cobb is young, 
thoroughly convinced of his own resources, and capable 
of devising his own romances; while we, more prosaic be¬ 
ings whose only hope for a taste of the unusual must come 
from the careers of men and women more interesting 
than ourselves, had best hasten after the little taxicab to 
the near by mansion of Mr. Fred Bellamy, conspicuous 
young man of means and bachelor de luxe. 

Big Jack Osborne lumbered after his tantalizingly 
active and reticent host along the old fashioned, intermin¬ 
able hallway into the consistently huge den, where a prize 
Persian cat and a great Dane, quite as awkward as himself, 
were racing for the first caress of their well loved master. 
It was generally agreed among the young folks that Fred 

[8] 


Bellamy Enlightens Us 


kept house for the benefit of his friends, but Jack always 
insisted it was for his dogs and cats. 

Jack successfully dodged the Persian, ponderously col¬ 
lided with the Dane; and in self defense, dropped help¬ 
lessly into a convenient easy chair, where, panting from 
the exertion and furiously blinking and shaking his fat 
cheeks as he always did when especially interested or ex¬ 
cited, he watched his chum stroking the purring. Rajah 
and patting the rough back of Hamlet with growing im¬ 
patience. 

“Spare the wild beast, Fred,” he protested, “and let 
us see if we cannot set our minds to more human affairs.” 

Bellamy persisted in his exasperating animalistic at¬ 
tentions and smiled. 

“Have you ever read the late Senator Vest’s oration 
upon the dog?” he asked looking up cautiously. “I can 
repeat it for you.” 

“Look here, Fred,” Osborne pleaded to the accom¬ 
paniment of a crescendo of characteristic grimaces, “you 
have held me off enough. You have been as tight as a 
clam and as companionable as a snail all evening. You 
shook the girls without a word and hustled me here in a 
two by four taxi, and I want to know what has become 
of your own machine, why Mandell didn t appear at his 
own wedding, and where he is now.” 

Bellamy straightened up in his chair with a jerk. 
“Jack, you are a terrible chump,” he chuckled. “Of course, 
I shook the girls and hustled you here because — I wanted 
to talk to you alone — to tell you so many things that I 
hardly know how to begin.” 

He arose precipitously with a belated realization of the 

[9] 




The Man With the Face 


need for haste; and selecting a couple of big black cigars, 
presented one to his wondering guest. 

“It’s going to be a long session, Jackie, but the humidor 
is full and I want you to keep awake. To-night, this house 
is headquarters for privileged information; and unless I 
am greatly mistaken, for a bit of mystery, too, perhaps.” 

Jack rubbed his fat hands with glee. 

“I don’t see how I could get on without you, Fred.” 

“I can not reveal the present whereabouts of poor 
Mandell, but I can explain the mystery of the taxi and 
account for his absence from his own wedding.” 

Jack shook his head admiringly. 

“You ought to be a detective or reporter, Fred. You 
manage to get on the inside of things so easily. So many 
people trust you. I envy you.” 

Bellamy made a gesture of protest. 

“Don’t do it, Jack,” he replied, studying the clouds 
of tobacco smoke, “any loafer can get on the inside of 
something, sometime. You are a real producer in the 
world, while I — well if dad hadn’t struck it so rich with 
his oil lands near Edwardsville, doubtless I would have 
to earn a living, myself.” 

“That would be no trick, Freddie. The Dean al¬ 
ways insisted that you had the best legal mind in the 
whole class.” 

Fred’s ruddy face took on a brighter hue as he pro¬ 
tested. 

“A mind is like a sponge, Jack, and unless you squeeze 
something out of it now and then, it will never absorb 
anything else. But, I fear we are digressing. Have you 
seen this afternoon’s Dispatch?” 

[io] 



Bellamy Enlightens Us 


“Dispatch? Why no. I am not in the habit of 
reading the Dispatch.” 

Bellamy smiled self-consciously. “Neither am I but 
I am glad I could get one to-day. I’ll let you see it,” and 
suiting the action to the word, he left the den and returned 
shortly with the important newspaper. 

Jack’s eyes did not get farther than the first page, 
“Can you beat it, Fred? A perfect likeness. Why, I 
thought it couldn’t be done. Mandell and his man have 
smashed a hundred cameras and beat up a score of artists 
who were bold enough to try to get him. How was it 
done?” 

Bellamy settled down into his chair confident of his 
auditor’s attention. “Standing gave a bachelor dinner in 
honor of Mandell, a couple of days ago. I was present.” 

“You were present?” Osborne repeated, little im¬ 
pressed. 

“Yes, there were only a few of us. Standing is very 
exclusive, you know.” 

“No, I don’t know,” Osborne protested. “I’ve met the 
fellow a few times but I don’t like what little I have seen of 
him.” 

“He does seem to be much of a ‘Mysterious Stranger’ 
to those whom he favors with his society. He was quite 
attentive to Helen Verban until the story of her father’s 
financial reverses appeared. Now I suppose he is doubly 
hostile to Mandell. But to get back to the dinner: he 
had a devise rigged up to weigh his guests before and after 
eating — some idea — something like the machines you 
see at depots and other public places, but his outfit was 
provided with a chair and you had to wait quite a time for 
the thing to work. We were all surprised at the result — 
[ii] 



The Man With the Face 


that is, I was when I found out to-day what came of it. 
You see, Standing is in a hospital, pretty thoroughly beat 
up. Mandell is rather free with his fists, at times, and 
handy with them also.” 

Osborne gave a start and his expression changed rapid¬ 
ly from astonishment to incredulity. 

“You don’t mean to tell me that Mandell punched 
that big boob. Why, he’s a boy, big as he is, beside Stand¬ 
ing. Must have been the black boy, Mose.” 

“Don’t you believe it. I saw the whole show. I 
chanced to be with Mandell when he caught the first glimpse 
of his own picture in the Dispatch. He is ugly enough 
at his best, but when he saw that picture, well, it will take 
a man with a larger vocabulary than I possess to describe 
his appearance. I believe he scared Standing more than 
he hurt him. With a gun in my hand, I would be paralyzed 
before a face like his when he is really mad.” 

Osborne began blinking again. “Wait a minute, Fred. 
Let’s collect these threads and don’t, please, unwind more 
than one spool at a time. What’s the Dispatch got to do 
with the scrap?” 

Bellamy dismissed the objection with a wave of the 
hand and continued his narration. “I am describing events 
just as they appeared to me. Of course, you might guess 
that the dinner had something to do with the face in the 
Dispatch. I didn’t realize it at the time. Now it is plain 
as day. When Mandell saw the paper, he didn’t say a 
word — merely let Mose, his colored chauffeur, know he 
wanted to go somewhere and gave me an invitation to go 
with him. I was somewhat surprised when we entered 
the automobile to hear him direct Mose to driv; to Stand¬ 
ing’s apartments. Our trip was a silent one. 

[12] 




Bellamy Enlightens Us 


“Standing was the very image of hospitality and wel¬ 
comed us effusively, but no one was deceived and he soon 
appreciated the fact that our errand was anything but 
a social one. Mandell wasted no time on ceremony. He 
closed the door himself, and then, a great many things 
happened at the same time. 

“Standing, as usual, made a mighty effort to strut 
and swagger, laughing uproariously at his own facetious 
reference to the automatic camera which had worked so 
admirably. The —” 

“The automatic camera?” Osborne repeated incredu¬ 
lously. 

Bellamy shook his head despairingly. “Jack, you are 
dense — just as dense as all of us, but Mandell saw through 
the thing. That weighing machine was also a camera.” 

Osborne’s expression betrayed more indignation than 
astonishment. “Poor fellow,” he ejaculated, “that’s rotten 
business, but go on.” 

“It’s done, Jack — long ago. Your interruption has 
robbed my story of its climax. Standing with all his bulk 
and bluster was woefully outclassed; and I had to call 
Mose and it was all the two of us could do to pull Mandell 
off, and that not a second too soon. Standing was nearly 
done for.” 

“Any danger? Will he die?” Osborne asked un¬ 
certainly. 

“I hope not. The doctors are somewhat concerned. 
Broke his hyoid bone or something of that sort or in that 
neighborhood and some new fangled complication might 
set in. He has a special nurse.” 

“And where is Mandell?” 

Bellamy’s eyes sparkled. “Wish I knew. It has been 
[i3] 




The Man With the Face 


a busy day for him. He visited Standing near five o’clock, 
and —” 

“I understand why he didn’t show up at his own wed¬ 
ding and Helen’s illness was made for the occasion.” 

“Precisely. Mandell and I traded cars right after 
the call upon Standing. Helen may have been with him 
all of the time we were at her house. Mose has been 
hanging around with Mandell’s car and only a short time 
ago, I received word that the cops are on his trail. There 
is going to be some fast driving over in Indiana and Man¬ 
dell won’t be there.” 

Osborne shook his head admiringly. “I’ve done you 
a great injustice, Fred. I have been envying you your 
leisure but I am free to admit now that you are one of 
the busiest men in Chicago.” 

Bellamy raised a hand in warning. The windows 
were open and in the varying hum of passing automobiles, 
he detected a familiar note. 

“It’s Red,” he announced and in silence they awaited 
the chauffeur’s report. 

Red’s business was running an automobile. He knew 
his place. He preferred the sound of a speeding automo¬ 
bile to that of his own voice. So, he bowed, presented his 
employer with a note, and slipped away as quietly as he 
came. 

“It’s from Mandell,” Fred announced. “Not very 
long, but mighty peculiar. Says he is safe — is not going 
to commit suicide, nor be caught by the police nor by an¬ 
other camera. He thanks me and bids me good bye. What 
the deuce does it mean?” 

There was only the exchange of a questioning glance 
for answer. 


[H] 



Bellamy Enlightens Us 


“Poor fellow, he’s awfully cut up over that scoop 
of Standing and the Dispatch.” 

“Rotten business,” Osborne repeated in a strangely 
quiet voice. 

Their colloquy was interrupted by the clang of the 
telephone and Bellamy eagerly caught the receiver. His 
face betrayed at once a happier state of mind. 

“They have caught Mose,” he chuckled with his hand 
over the transmitter, “and Mandell was not with him.” 

He turned to Osborne and winked knowingly. “The 
police are asking me for information. Sorry I can not do 
you any good,” he replied to the inquiring official. 

He paced the floor in deep study and resumed his 
chair without reaching any conclusion. “Where can he 
be?” he asked his big chum with boyish helplessness. 

“I don’t know,” Osborne answered somewhat im¬ 
patiently. “But why all the rumpus? Why not stand 
trial without all this commotion? It’s nothing so serious. 
He’s a lawyer. He ought to know he will be caught?” 

Bellamy was losing patience also and began pacing 
the floor again. 

“Oh, that’s plain enough. He doesn’t fear the affair 
with Standing. I don’t think Standing would appear 
against him but naturally the Dispatch has learned of the 
encounter and is trying to make something of it. The office 
called Standing while we were in the room. A reporter 
was to come for some papers — something more about 
Mandell, I suppose. Standing was not concious yet and 
I answered the phone. I got by in good shape and put him 
off an hour. But, don’t you see, it’s that devilish picture, 
and the notoriety? He is sensitive, man, and not brave 

[i5] 




The Man With the Face 


enough to stand the public stare after this. But what 
does he mean?” 

Osborne’s face lighted up with a new idea. “He has 
defended some mighty influential men and has some hold 
upon the police. There are a great many people in this 
city who are under obligation to him and would be glad 
to help him.” 

Bellamy was relieved. “Of course, perhaps someone 
right here in Chicago is giving him asylum. He has in¬ 
dulged in considerable quiet philanthropy in the tougher 
portions of the city. He knew what he was about when he 
asked the loan of my machine.” 

“Sure. There’s nothing to it. He’s rich and don’t 
have to stick around here any longer than he cares to. 
We’ll hear from him — from some foreign shore, some of 
these days. Perhaps, after all, he realized that his mar¬ 
riage would be a mistake, as it surely would be, and is 
only too glad of the opportunity to release Helen Verban 
without hurting her feelings.” 

“Possible, Jack. He would not want her to share 
the notoriety.” 

“Of course. Not to change the subject entirely, Fred, 
how do you account for this strange attachment between 
individuals of such opposite characteristics and makeup as 
Helen Verban and Ralph Mandell? Why, his name itself 
makes his appearance the more repulsive.” 

“You would not think it so strange if you knew more 
of the history of these two families, Jack. Mandell’s 
father was once the wealthiest man in Hawaii — a real 
Sugar King with an estate and social position that made 
him the most courted citizen of the Island. 

“About this time, the Verbans, at the height of their 

[16] 



Bellamy Enlightens Us 


prosperity, visited Hawaii with the hope of benefiting Mrs. 
Verban’s health. She had never been very robust. Well, 
the two men met, and liked one another at sight. Mandell 
placed his palace at the disposal of his new friends, for 
the attachment between the ladies was none the less warm; 
and it was there that Helen Verban was born. Ralph 
Mandell was then ten years old; and as a remarkable 
coincidence, a little girl came to the Mandells on the very 
day Helen was born. Thus their friendship, so auspiciously 
begun, grew every year with the Mandells visiting in 
Chicago and the Verbans returning with them to Hawaii. 

“During one of these sojourns, a double misfortune 
robbed this bright Island home of its happiness. Mandell’s 
little daughter, ill for some time, was pronounced a leper; 
and despite his own honest doubt, backed by competent 
medical opinion, for leprosy is almost unknown in a patient 
so young, and several excellent physicians regarded the 
case as tuberculosis; despite all his financial and political 
power, the child was carried off to the leper colonywhere 
she speedily died hurried along by grief and privation. 

“Then to round out a full measure of affliction, Helen 
broken hearted over the loss of her little playmate, also 
fell ill. Her parents were frantic; and fearing to summon 
a local physician, made preparations for an immediate re¬ 
turn to America. Of course, our fool health officer was 
on the job at once; and putting his own construction on 
their conduct, quarantined both families. Then, Mr. Man¬ 
dell lost control of himself and took matters into his own 
hands. His method was similar to that employed by his 
son to-day, but Mr. Verban was not strong enough to 
pull him off, and another health officer was needed when 
he had finished his work. 


[i7] 



The Man With the Face 


“Public sympathy was entirely with Mandell — 
Helen’s malady proved to be a mild attack of the measles 
— and Mandell was very rich. It cost him something you 
may be sure, but he got clear and immediately moved to 
California, where his genius for acquiring wealth did not 
forsake him; and although it is not generally known, Ralph 
Mandell, Attorney-at-law, is a richer man than the famous 
Sugar King of Hawaii ever dreamed of becoming. 

“At the age of eighteen, Ralph was a fine looking 
young fellow, a man in stature, and a hero in fearlessness; 
and he ran away from home to help the Russians fight the 
Japs. He was struck down and captured in a sortie from 
Port Arthur, but he cursed and fought the Jap surgeons — 
you may imagine how much love he bore for medical men — 
until they let him alone. That is what your high explosives 
can do for a man —disfigure him for life, make him an 
object of horror to his friends, and let him live. What a 
terrible harvest of ghastly disfigurements will follow the 
next big war!” 

“There won’t be any next war, Fred. Civilization has 
no room for such a calamity.” 

“But the world has, Jack. It takes just a difference of 
opinion to bring it. I heard a lady elocutionist recently 
recite a little poem depicting the horrors of war and de¬ 
ploring the arguments for preparedness. She told us in 
a few powerful words her reasons as a wife and mother 
for opposing these arguments. I thought she ought to 
be telling them to our enemies and not to worry about 
us. Running a nation is a great deal like driving an auto¬ 
mobile through a crowded street. You have to watch the 
fellow coming toward you and the fellow behind: and the 
bigger and more powerful your own car, the less danger 

[18] 




Bellamy Enlightens Us 


of being hit by the careless or intentional bad driving of 

the other chap.” , 

“You are probably right, Fred, but really, 1 don t 
believe many people know this about Mandell. 

“Mandell does not discuss himself, but you may be 
sure that he does not appear ugly or homely to Helen.” 

“Isn’t that fine?” Jack asked with an emphatic blink. 
“I’d like to take a poke at that cur, Standing, myself. So, 
he wanted to get even with Mandell because Helen jilted 

“I am not so sure it was revenge. Standing looks far 
ahead. He is conceited enough, too. He knew that Man¬ 
dell had settled a fortune upon her and may have expected 
to frighten him away and get the money after all. But 
he will be mistaken. Helen detests him. Mandell also 
shared the general suspicion and made some investigation 
of the fellow’s past. I don’t know what he discovered 
but I know there has always been a feeling of hostility 
between the two men. Mrs. Collins is about the only one 
who accepts Standing as anything but a counterfeit. 

Jack had become quiet and blinkless, his mind evi¬ 
dently active but calm. Hamlet had found a soft rug, 
and Rajah a convenient cushion. Bellamy rocked softly 

in his big chair. . . . •, uj 

“Sometimes,” Fred resumed after a brief silence, I 
have thought Mandell might not be entirely satisfied with 
his profession. He is a fine thinker. His speech, of course, 
is not free, but I don’t suppose he realizes just how he 
appears to others — although his experience with a promi¬ 
nent Lyceum Bureau must have given him a hint of it 

“His first and last assignment was in Waterloo, Iowa, 
two years ago. The Women’s club arranged a reception 
[19] 



The Man With the Face 


for him. I suppose it was inspired by the proper motives 
for they had seen him that afternoon on the lecture plat¬ 
form. Likely enough, it sprang entirely from a desire to 
do something nice. Of course, Mandell was timid and 
awkward: and when the hostess took his hand at the door 
the function came off in a private home — he nearly 
collapsed. It was very hot and close, that night, and the 
good lady, misinterpreting his symptoms, called to her little 
daughter, a child of ten or twelve, to bring a glass of water. 

As the little girl came up to him standing there 
directly under the chandelier, in full view for the first time, 
she caught just one glimpse of him and, with a shriek of 
terror, dashed the water in his face and fled screaming 
from the house.” 

Bellamy looked up at his big chum with boyish appeal. 
Isn t it awful, Jack, to have a face that frightens women 
and children?” 

Jack shook his head and blinked helplessly. 

“It wouldn’t be so bad if he were an imbecile,” Bel¬ 
lamy continued with great feeling, “but he has such a 
wonderful mind, and loves the beautiful. You ought to 
see his office. Look how he dresses — up to the minute, 
but with taste. It must be that every achievement has 
made him more wretched.” 

‘There is no question about his ability,” Jack assented, 
but say, Fred, with a sudden display of energy, “I’ll 
take back everything I said about your keen legal mind — 
not claiming anything for my own. Why didn’t you ask 
Red where he drove Mandell? Is it too late?” 

Bellamy was equally impressed. “Red likes the machine 
better than human company,” he replied apologetically. 
He is always ducking at the first chance, but we will have 

[20] 





Bellamy Enlightens Us 


him here in a few minutes. I warned him not to turn in 
for the night.” 

Red entered and stood at attention without a word. 

“Where did you drive Mr. Mandell?” Bellamy asked 

him. 

Red smiled self consciously. “I didn’t drive him at 

all.” 

“At all?” Bellamy repeated incredulously. 

“Well, not enough to count,” Red hurriedly cor¬ 
rected. “Told me to drive to Mr. Verban’s, changed his 
mind half way and ordered me back to his office. We 
started out again, after a short time that he spent in his 
office, and a big fellow with black whiskers and a frock 
coat took the machine at the Post Office. I guess he knew 
we were coming. He told me I would have time to take 
in a picture show.” 

“Who was he? What was his business?” 

“Don’t know. He was some friend of Mr. Mandell, 
I reckon. Looked like a backwoods preacher to me.” 

“How old a man would you call him?” 

“About fifty — I should say.” 

“Didn’t he give you any information?” 

Red smiled again. “He told me where to wait for 
him and I had to wait some.” 

“Why didn’t you pump him?” 

Red shook his head in a knowing way. “Say you 
ought to see his eyes.” 

Red’s departure was as precipitous as his entrance. 

“Not much help from that direction, is there, Jack?” 

Jack shook his head ominously. “I don’t know Man¬ 
dell well enough to make any prediction; but unless he 

[21] 




The Man With the Face 


shows up pretty soon, the majority of interested onlookers 
will decide that he has committed suicide.” 

Bellamy made a motion to ward off the gloomy 
prophecy. “I do not know him any too well either. I have 
always admired and liked him. I am quite sure he thinks 
something of me, but he has placed about himself a barrier 
that is hard to penetrate. He may have friends I know 
nothing of. He has done much charity work in this city. 
The big fellow Red speaks of must be a real friend. You 
may remember what the Psalm says : 

“ ‘Blessed is he that considereth the poor. 

The Lord will deliver him in time of trouble. 

“ ‘The Lord will preserve him and keep him 
alive: and he shall be blessed upon the earth; and 
thou wilt not deliver him unto the will of his 
enemies.’ ” 

Osborne regarded his host with challenging eyes. 
“The funny thing about the Psalm, Fred, is that you 
believe it.” 

“It would be funny if I did not believe it, Jack.” 

Jack carried into the big room always reserved for 
him, the picture of a tangle of curly hair, a pair of bright, 
black eyes, and a ruddy sunny face; and a curly headed 
child in a cradle lisping his first prayer and not forgetting 
it later. 


[22] 




CHAPTER III. 


Mr. Mandell Eludes Us 

S TANDING dwelt in perfectly modern apartments. 
The walls and floors were sound proof; therefore the 
neighbors were not aware of the nature of his brief 
engagement with Mandell. The attorney, recalled to 
reason, withdrew from the field in silence and good order. 
Bellamy summoned a physician of discretion; and although 
speech was very painful, Standing made it plain that he 
desired no publicity. He was taken to a private hospital 
as the easiest way out of the difficulty. 

Mandell was driven directly to his office. He was 
glad to find it deserted. A desk clock reminded him of 
the hour, 5.30 P. M. For a few minutes, he sat in his 
chair swinging around to take in every article that had 
suddenly become so dear, while a wonderful new scheme 
was rapidly taking shape in his mind. 

He was not particularly excited. Indeed, it seemed 
ridiculous that he had never thought of the thing before. 
It was so sure and so easy. What a coincidence that the 
thought had come only to-day! Heretofore, he had ever 
at hand a certain panacea for his affliction — work — 
always work; but now for the first time, he began to 
question the efficacy of this familiar specific with its ten 
years of consistent study and strife and cold hearted 
clients. 

But they had paid his price! 

[23] 


The Man With the Face 


He began a hasty calculation of his resources. ‘‘Pretty 
rich, pretty rich,” he repeated exultantly; and in a spirit 
of cool deliberation, walked about the office with the im¬ 
personal eye of the expert who makes a final inspection of 
a product which is not to be returned. He sat down again, 
uncovered the typewriter, and wrote a letter of instruction 
to his stenographer. She was to have charge of the office, 
provision for her salary being promised, until his successor 
should present himself with the proper credentials. This 
he hoped to arrange in a short time. 

His next effort, a card for the classified advertising 
department of a leading legal Journal, made his misery more 
acute, but he compromised upon the following:— 

“For Sale —Unquestionably the most lucrative one 
man practice in Corporation Law and Allied Branches in 
the United States. 

“On account of the sudden removal of the owner, an 
unusual opportunity is offered a young attorney of proven 
preliminary and legal education with special knowledge 
and experience in corporation law and the ability and ambi¬ 
tion to interest and satisfy clients of the most exacting 
discrimination, to assume this attractive specialty. 

“Office location and appointments are in keeping with 
the requirements of this business. 

“Applicant must convince the advertiser that he 
possesses these additional qualifications — ability to write 
acceptable professional articles, ability to talk convincingly 
and eloquently (evidence of success, however brief, upon 
the stage or lecture platform will be given consideration), 
a pleasing personality, more than average good looks, no 
matrimonial entanglements or prospects, and the courage 
[24] 



Mr. Mandell Eludes Us 


to undertake this proposition without the advantage of a 
personal introduction. 

“In answering this advertisement, give full details in 
first letter with proofs and photograph. To the right man, 
the advertiser will furnish his reasons for leaving and 
for these particular requirements. He will agree to finance 
his successor if necessary, and will offer suggestions which 
he is convinced will lead to complete professional and social 
success.” 

He read the advertisement with greater confidence, 

directed the editor to mail replies to No. - South 

Canal St., Chicago, Ill., and addressed the envelope The 
Legal Forum (Classified Ad. Dept. ), Boston, Mass. 

With a trembling hand, he scrawled the message to 
Helen Verban w r hich he had not dared speak. He knew 
it was brutally brief. Mechanically he drew out his watch. 
It showed him the need for haste, and he stumbled out 
into the hall and dropped the letters in the mail chute. 

Once more, he dragged himself into his private room. 
From a cabinet in one corner, he withdrew a photograph 
of his beautiful fiancee. She was surely a lovely little being, 
looking at him from beneath a wealth of waving black 
hair that could not hide a fairly high forehead; and while 
this poor, contrastingly distorted creature held the picture 
at arm’s length, it took on the appearance of living reality, 
and fearlessly, but reverentially, he spoke to it. 

He brought the picture nearer, but his hands shook 
and he could hardly hold his head up, “I don’t know how it 
will turn out but I must go. Think of me, remember me 
until —” 

Somehow, he manged to get the photograph in a large 
pocketbook, safe in his coat. Then he groped about the 

[25] 




The Man With the Face 


room like a blind man. For just a moment he lingered in 
the doorway. 

“Pretty good outfit to turn over to an unknown law¬ 
yer,” he moaned. In spite of himself his hand flashed 
before him a copy of the Dispatch with his own dreadful 
likeness on the first page; and in unrestrained fury, he 
waved it about his head. 

“Good-bye, Chicago,” he snarled. “Good-bye, you 
revilers, you starers.” 

Down a dozen stairways, his passion was spending 
itself, and master of himself again, he calmly entered Bel¬ 
lamy’s limousine, drawn close to the curb and directed 
the chauffeur to drive to the Post Office, where a big man 
with black whiskers and a black frock coat, brushed by 
the door with a few words of greeting, mounted the driver’s 
seat, and permitted Red to descend to the street. 

When the big man brought the car back, there was 
no one inside. 


[26] 




CHAPTER IV. 

Helen Hires a Detective 

MUCH mystified young lady now dwelled in the 



ancient House of Verban. Daily, she passed the 


■*" hours in the single companionship of her aged 
father. Mr. Verban had never been a man to wrestle 
with the hard facts and cold figures of business. In the 
field of salesmanship, there was no one to dispute his 
leadership. The less attractive executive details of the 
work he always entrusted to hired help. 

When Mrs. Verban died, Helen was fifteen years old 
at the time, Chicago was fast becoming the great com¬ 
mercial centre which it is to-day. It was a time of easy 
credit and great expansion. The Verban Company grew 
up like a top heavy tree, all trunk and branches, and finally 
toppled over. There were scores of men who were willing 
to help raise it, but it never flourished again. 

Mr. Verban, at seventy, was still planning new cam¬ 
paigns for gettings orders and insisting that there were 
many years of hard work left in him, but Mandell persuaded 
him to retire. By what clever manipulation of fact and 
fancy, the attorney had convinced her father that the 
threatened bankruptcy was merely the bluff of a few des¬ 
perate competitors, Helen could not imagine but she knew 
perfectly well that the proof had been rather expensive. 

Standing was out in two weeks, his chief concern that 
anyone could believe a smaller man unaided had done him 
so much damage. 


[27] 


The Man With the Face 


Concerning Mandell’s disappearance, there was a 
diversity of opinion. The Dispatch accorded it the appro¬ 
priate publicity and people in many cities became familiar 
with the remarkable physiognomy of the missing attorney. 
Bellamy, who maintained an office and practiced law for 
diversion, ran across the advertisement in the legal journal 
and persuaded a few interested members of the local bar 
association that Mandell’s decision, if the card were really 
his, was purely a private affair. The average man believed 
he had committed suicide. 

Helen decided not to share this gloomy conviction. 
Had he not written that he would do no such thing? So she 
set about to solve the mystery herself and began by call¬ 
ing to her aid a celebrated detective. The detective made 
no immediate progress and she began a private investiga¬ 
tion by going to his apartments. The lease had two years 
to run and the rent had been paid for the full term. Her 
astonishment was only increased when the agent explained 
that the remittance had come the very day after his dis¬ 
appearance. 

The rooms were truly those of a student. A privately 
published history of the family carried her back through 
centuries of pre-eminence and splendor, and filled her with 
disappointment over the peculiar repression of a man so 
privileged to take pride in his ancestry. Then there was 
a notice of his election to the faculty of a famous law 
school with a carbon copy of his respectful declination of 
the honor. Carefully fastened to the cover of the family 
bible was a photograph, dimmed by age. A handsome, 
serious gentleman of middle age looked up not unkindly 
at her. Beside him, stood a sweet faced woman with her 
hands resting upon the shoulders of two children — a boy 

[28] 




Helen Hires a Detective 


and a girl, and the boy was a perfect composite with the 
strange strength of the father and the mild beauty of the 
mother. 

How well she remembered them I What wonderful 
ties had bound the two families! How remarkable too, 
that to both of them children had come only in their late 
years. As she beheld again her little companion, whose only 
irregular features were ears set out at too great an angle, 
a wave of motherly sympathy welled up in her breast. 
“Poor, little fellow,” she moaned, unconscious of the years 
which made him her senior, “poor little fellow.” 

Some one has said, “that mere good looks whether in 
man or woman have never been necessary to a great passion. 
Indeed, some of the most remarkable love affairs both in 
ancient and in modern times have been affairs in which one 
at least of the two persons concerned was not merely plain 
but positively ugly. Are we to say then that other qualities 
can make one forget ugliness or has ugliness a certain fasci¬ 
nation of its own?” 

To Helen’s regard, Mandell’s deformities had added 
instead of subtracted. Now his voluntary effacement set 
her to thinking and she believed that he was more sensitive 
than she ever imagined and that made her very unhappy. 

She looked upon her newly acquired affluence with a 
guilty conscience. Mandell’s arguments had not convinced 
her after all. She remembered that he was interested in 
some sort of philanthropy on the South Side. She wished 
she might learn where so as to share some of her ill gotten 
wealth with it. 

As one day followed another without a word from 
him, her fears for his safety increased. 

One afternoon, the postman brought a letter with a 

[29] 



The Man With the Face 


special delivery stamp. She recognized the writing at once 
and her heart gave a great bound. He must be alive. 
Breathlessly she tore open the envelope. The contents 
were tantalizingly brief — merely announcing that he was 
on his way to New Orleans and would write agaim There 
was no heading to the letter and when she examined the 
envelope again, she was exasperated to find only the rail¬ 
way stamp on it. 

But he was alive. That was something. The letter 
was mailed on an Illinois Central train, so he must have 
traveled along that line. She turned it over at once to 
her detective. Steps were taken immediately to put the 
authorities along the Illinois Central and connecting lines 
on the alert; but in the end, nothing came of it for every 
trainman on the Illinois Central and even competing lines 
was positive that no man answering to the description of 
Ralph Mandell had been a passenger. The detective was 
not discouraged however, because he had always ridiculed 
the idea that Mandell might travel anywhere by so public 
a conveyance as a railroad car. What of automobiles and 
even aeroplanes? 

Helen was disconsolate. The promised letter was so 
slow to come and before it did come nearly a year had gone. 


[ 30 ] 




“Man Looketh on the Outward Appearance” 
CHAPTER V. 

Mr. Mortell Introduces Himself 

T HE New Orleans Special was late, there was a dis- 
couragingly large crowd at the gate, and one pass¬ 
enger was in a hurry. He would have attracted 
attention anywhere; and the gateman, professionally care¬ 
less of the human species, looked at him a second time. 
He was tall, square shouldered, and straight as a young 
pine. Dark, deep set, unswerving eyes; a closely cropped 
black moustache; lips as regular as those of his own pretty 
daughter; but a chin to delight a man — all this the gate- 
man saw as he silently philosophized. 

“Too bad you are in such a rush, young fellow. 
There’s a lot of pretty women here who would like to 
see more of you and their necks are not long enough. And 
you’re going through anywhere just like you did here. 
That’s a cinch.” 

On Michigan Avenue, he slackened his pace and began 
to pay some attention to his surroundings. Automobiles 
were passing in a procession. Above him, were myriads 
of new and fascinating sky tints. Near the Lake, April 
showers had called the early foliage and the spirit of 
growth was in the air. Everywhere, something striking 
caught his eye; and the philosophical gateman might have 
recognized in his later demeanor, a greater security and 
serenity. 


[3i] 


The Man With the Face 


Reluctantly, he turned West on Madison Street and 
entered one of the newer office buildings like a man with 
some unwelcome mission before him. He studied the 
directory and mounted the elevator with an effort. When 
he opened the door to Mandell’s reception room, he was 
anything but the self assertive individual who so eagerly 
elbowed his way through the dallying crowd at the depot. 

The office girl greeted him with her professional smile. 

“Mr. Mandell is away on his vacation,” she announced. 

The words were magical. Instantly he became a being 
of power and self confidence again. 

“You are quite sure?” he demanded with a challenging 
stare. 

The young lady was not so sure. “Oh, he wrote me a 
joking letter about selling out a long time ago,” she replied 
rather lamely, “but of course I never took it seriously. 
Now, I don’t suppose I can be of much service to you but if 
you’ll leave your card, I shall remind him of your call when 
he does return.” 

“You were not expecting me, then, Miss Dodd?” 

She regarded him closely and shook her head in con¬ 
fusion. 

“My memory for faces is quite good,” she replied 
apologetically, “but I cannot quite place you.” 

He was pleased immensely. “Naturally you cannot 
place me as this is the first time you ever saw me. I have 
a slight advantage over you. Mr. Mandell gave me much 
information. I am the poor, unfortunate, deluded, and 
conceited individual who bought his practice.” 

The announcement was startling. Miss Dodd was 
both astonished and humiliated. 

“I never dreamed of such a thing — I never believed 

[32] 



Mr. Mortell Introduces Himself 


it,” she faltered. “What is he going to do now? Where 
is he?” 

“Really, I cannot say. I met him in New Orleans, 
and there I left him, a few days ago. Our business was 
finished in a hurry. Surely he must have written you, but 
evidently I have traveled faster than his letter or perhaps 
it may have been lost. However, I presume you are 
familiar with his handwriting,” drawing a legal document 
from his coat pocket. “This paper is witness of the trans¬ 
fer.” 

She glanced at the signature at the bottom of the sheet. 

“That surely is his handwriting. I never saw any like 
his.” She looked at him appealingly. “I have no idea 
of doubting you, Mr. —” 

The Unknown did not respond and she dropped her 
eyes in confusion. “I shall look to you for orders. Here 
is the key,” she murmured. 

“Thanks. There is a little matter I wish to look 
up in Bishop. I expect to take the State Bar Examination. 7 ’ 

“Then, you are not registered in Illinois?” she asked, 
leading the way into the library. 

“No, I have never been in active practice in this 
state. My work has kept me abroad most of the time. 
However, I shall take the State Board as the easiest way 
to qualify.” 

“Of course, I am sure you will find it ridiculously 
easy.” 

“You are very encouraging,” he laughed. 

“She doesn’t appear to miss her old employer very 
much,” he mused, sitting down with the book in his hands 
while she busied herself with various duties that kept him 
in view. There was another question that required elucida¬ 
te] 



The Man With the Face 


tion. She seemed to anticipate his wants and was at his 
side instantly. 

“Mandell must have misjudged that poor girl,” he 
told himself on the way out. “She is not afraid of me.” 

“Now what do you think of that?” Miss Dodd solil¬ 
oquized, standing in the middle of the room, the picture 
of distraction and despair. “Did he tell me his name? 
Well, I guess not — not that fellow, and I didn’t have sense 
enough to look for it in that paper, and I don’t know 
whether it was a legal document or a joke. He didn’t 
tell me anything he didn’t want to and I don’t believe he 
ever will, and he’s got the key and I’m a perfect fool.” 

“Never mind, little lady,” our friend the gateman 
would have told her, “he’s bound to have his way and he’s 
going to tell just what he wants to, and there ain’t nobody 
going to ask him a second time, neither.” 


Along Monroe Street, the Unknown floated. “Man¬ 
dell does not seem to be missed,” he assured himself with 
an air of disappointment. “Wonder, if his looks had any¬ 
thing to do with it?” 

Around a corner, a small mob swooped down upon 
him; and willingly following the line of least resistance, 
he went with them into a very pretentious restaurant. The 
place was crowded and immediately he was conscious of 
something wrong with the service — a waiters’ strike or 
trouble in the kitchen, perhaps. He was hungry and took 
possession of the first unoccupied table he came to. 

“I’m in no hurry, anyway,” he chuckled. He looked 
about him with a start. “Well, if this isn’t a coincidence. 

[ 34 ] 




Mr. Mortell Introduces Himself 


The very place Mandell told me to come. Wonder, if he 
is here?” 

He began a broad survey of the room and stopped 
short. Directly in front of him, not twenty feet away, sat 
a couple of impatient young ladies and their fuming escort. 
He could see only the back of the man but it was broad and 
straight. A mass of curly chestnut hair gave him hope. 
Finally, for an instant, the head turned toward him; and 
in that instant, the expression of irritation, plain as it was, 
could not conceal the warmth and color of a face which he 
was not to mistake even in a thousand. 

Mr. Solitaire’s own color rivaled that of his quarry. 
His heart gave a great bound. Had our accommodating 
gateman been present, he would have been thunderstruck at 
the change. “Why, that chap must have a yellow streak, 
after all,” he would have been forced to admit. 

But the yellow streak vanished as rapidly as it came. 
“I’ve got to start sometime,” he assured himself, “and 
I don’t see why a couple of petticoats should stop me;” 
and Mr. Solitaire, with a smile of recognition, boldly ap¬ 
proached the table and held out a hand. 

“Pardon me — am I not addressing Mr. Fred Bel¬ 
lamy?” he murmured. 

Bellamy looked at him a little uncertain, with his head 
inclined to one side, but arose promptly. 

“Right the very first time,” he laughed, grasping the 
outstretched hand with unstinted cordiality, Mr. — eh —” 

“Mortell,” the intruder hurriedly prompted. 

Bellamy was unpardonably self possessed. “Mortell, 
of course. Some of these days I will be forgetting my own 
name. I have you placed, all right. Met you last year 

[ 35 ] 



The Man With the Face 


at the Harvard-Yale game. Mortell of course. Not a 
name hard to remember.” 

The newcomer was very happy. “Easier than I 
hoped,” he chuckled to himself, “but what a fraud he is — 
met me at the Harvard-Yale game — eh — now I wonder 
what his game is for I’m sure he doesn’t mean a word 
of it and has no idea who I am. Glory be.” 

He looked at Bellamy a second time for confirmation. 
“Mandell was right; that chap is a natural actor, and this 
is rather a promising situation.” 

Bellamy, not the least embarrassed by the silence of 
the intruder, arose manfully to the occasion. 

“Girls, this is a pleasure and a vindication for me — 
a pleasure to present an old and dear friend and a vindica¬ 
tion because you have always doubted his existence.” 

“Not the romantic remnant of that hero race whom 
you met in Europe?” the stouter of the two young ladies 
challenged before her name was announced. 

Bellamy bowed majestically. “The very same,” he 
affirmed. 

Mortell repeated the names after his bewildering host 
— “Miss Walker — Miss Chabot.” 

“But his name was not Mortell, you big fraud,” Miss 
Walker persisted. 

Bellamy smiled indulgently. “It’s a woman’s privilege 
to jumble identities, but this is the man.” 

Little Miss Chabot turned apologetically to the new¬ 
comer. “We never know when to take Fred seriously,” 
she said. 

U ? Y°u have got to take me seriously pretty soon, Little 
Lady,” Bellamy protested, whereat the little lady blushed 
and her companion laughed heartily and hastened to assure 

[ 36 ] 



Mr. Mortell Introduces Himself 


their guest that she had not meant to question his genuine¬ 
ness in the least. 

At any rate, Mortell began to feel surprisingly easy 
for all the imagination of his new sponsor. 

“It’s a mighty happy meeting, old chap,” Bellamy 
resumed. “Jack is busy to-night and we have four tickets 
for the theatre. We need your presence absolutely.” 

“Which means also, Mr. Mortell, that you are invited 
to dine with us first,” Miss Walker explained. 

“Gentlemen, be seated,” Bellamy laughed, setting the 
example to his guest. 

“But there don’t seem to be any waiters here,” little 
Miss Chabot objected. 

Miss Walker was full of protest. “Why, Margery, 
this is a night of wonderful possibilities. Could Fred dis¬ 
appoint us again? Has he not brought us this real live 
man from what we were unkind enough to imagine might 
be a land of fiction? Is it as much to expect him to 
materialize one lone waiter?” 

They turned to Bellamy. He took the challenge seri- 
ously. 

“Your confidence does credit to your superior dis¬ 
cernment,” he declared, “and it shall not be in vain.” Then 
before his friends could grasp his meaning, he leaped to his 
feet, kicking his chair to the floor with a crash.. With 
every eye upon him, he threw his arms above his head, 
beat his chest, pressed his temples as if in agony, and fell 
heavily upon the table, shouting “help, help at the top 
of his voice. 

There was a quick shifting of feet, the sound of more 
chairs dropping to the floor, the cry of frightened women; 
and while the men from all parts of the big dining room 

[ 37 ] 



The Man With the Face 


looked on in questioning inaction, through a dozen hitherto 
unused doors, swept an army of anxious waiters. Mortell 
viewing these strange manoeuvers, first, in wonder, then 
in consternation, and finally in genuine alarm, raised the 
curly head from the table, and a tantalizing smile and boyish 
wink reassured him and made him feel foolish at once. 

Bellamy, not the least perturbed, grasped a gaping 
waiter by the coat and turned in triumph to Miss Walker. 
“Help has come, Grace. Behold your lone waiter. Quick, 
girls, give him your order.” 

His voice carried to the farthest corner, for the time, 
the only sound in this hushed atmosphere. Everywhere 
else the guests were still standing and the real significance 
of the situation came to all of them at once. The waiters 
ranged about in a circle looked sheepishly at one another. 
Even the densest could not suppress a grin, and a great 
wave of genuine unrestrained laughter spread over the 
room. Without a word of consultation or a single com¬ 
mand, the waiters apportioned themselves among the 
hungry guests; the orchestra struck up a lively air; and the 
question uppermost in every mind was: “What will we 
have to eat?” 

Mortell found no time for reflection. Miss Walker 
was particularly interested in him. 

“So, you are the famous being. Really, I always sus¬ 
pected Fred of romancing — he has a very vivid imagina¬ 
tion. I am perfectly reconciled. But I am bound to avail 
myself of the American privilege to ask questions.” 

“But I am not a foreigner at all — at least not now, 
Miss Walker.” 

Fred held up a hand in warning. “Let us get some¬ 
thing to eat, first of all, folks. I am going to order. I’ve 

[ 38 ] 



Mr. Mortell Introduces Himself 


been studying dietetics and know all about food values 
and calories, etc.” 

At this instance, a very corpulent and important look¬ 
ing functionary puffed his way to their table and the regular 
waiter vanished. 

“Eggskoose me, but Mr. Shrontz (Mr. Shrontz was 
the manager) vishes to know if you vould do him der honor 
to trink some shampagne mit his komplements und not to 
pe in too much off a hurry pecause he is daking charge von 
dis dable, himself?” 

Bellamy looked up incredulously. 

“I think so but tell me please the reason for all this 
delayed interest.” 

The functionary smiled self consciously. 

“Der reason is simple, Mr. Bellamy. You surely are 
not unavere dat you haf proken up a vaiters’ strike, here 
dis evening?” 

Bellamy drew a long breath. The announcement, made 
in no quiet tones, spread to nearby tables and was relayed 
to others. Friends insisted upon coming over and offering 
congratulations. Mortell began to meet people. 

The dinner surely did credit to the occasion. Mortell 
surprised them by merely tasting the champagne. 

“I am afraid Mr. Mortell may associate us always 
with food and drink,” little Miss Chabot murmured with 
a shy look at the unfinished glass. 

Mortell regarded her more closely and truly she 
appeared out of place where mere food and drink are to 
be considered. She was all eyes and soul, a slender, grace¬ 
ful, sylph like being, just the opposite of her ample, kindly, 
less spiritual and more human girl friend. It did not 
seem possible that such an airy little creature could drink 

[ 39 ] 




The Man With the Face 


champagne, but she made a brave attempt and got no 
farther. 

Bellamy turned to Miss Walker. “You see what 
Physiology in the Public Schools has done. Father tells 
me that when he was a boy all the farmers were in the 
habit of taking a jug of whiskey to the harvest fields; and 
a friend of his, a Baptist Minister, received, in his first 
yearly stipend, a barrel of whiskey.” 

“But the doctors tell us alcohol is a poison,” Miss 
Chabot insisted. “It increases blood pressure.” 

They all laughed. 

“Pm going to buy you a sp—sp,” Bellamy said. 

“Sphygmomanometer,” the little lady prompted. 

Bellamy turned to Mortell. “Miss Chabot is a close 
student of the ‘How to keep well’ column in the daily 
paper.” 

“Indeed, I am and I think it is fascinating. I’d love 
to be a nurse or a doctor,” she added, looking away to an 
abandoned ideal with her big violet eyes. 

“You will make a better wife than anything else, little 
girl,” Bellamy suggested with a futile effort to catch her 
hand. 

“Did you ever see such a soft couple, Mr. Mortell?” 
Miss Walker asked in feigned disapproval. 

“ ‘All the world loves a lover’ someone has said,” he 
replied with a catch in his voice whereat the ladies secretly 
concluded that somewhere, sometime, he had had an affair of 
the heart which had not turned out altogether satisfactorily. 

Their talk touched many subjects. An occasional al¬ 
lusion to the character with which Bellamy by his previous 
descriptions had so suddenly invested him brought Mortell 
several anxious moments. He understood perfectly well 

[40] 



Mr. Mortell Introduces Himself 


that Bellamy had made no mistake in identity and it was 
rather disconcerting to be compelled to play a part which 
the rest of the company knew much better than he did 
himself. He was pretty sure that he was in for eventual 
disgrace unless Bellamy should have the goodness and 
foresight to save him. Perhaps he would. He ought to 
do it. 

On the way to the theatre, Mortell found himself 
beside Miss Walker with Bellamy and his fiancee ahead. 
He was very quiet. His conduct was becoming a puzzle 
to his companion. Even after she caught his arm, he let 
it dangle awkwardly. With a laugh, she bent it to the 
proper angle and he thanked her so formally that she 
abruptly stopped him. 

“What is wrong, Mr. Mortell?” she inquired sym¬ 
pathetically. 

He aroused himself with an effort and forced a laugh. 

“Nothing more serious than inexperience, I assure 

you.” ^ 

“Then, I am truly proud of my privilege,” she re¬ 
joined, leading him on again. “But I am not so easily 
convinced. You are too forceful a man to be led and it 
seems ridiculous and almost unwomanly for me to attempt 
it. Somehow, I feel that you have done things — big 
things — and I suspect that you have done things to more 
than one trusting female heart.” 

Mortell laughed genuinely. 

“I may be bold enough to think that my life has not 
been entirely purposeless but to the last charge, I can posi¬ 
tively plead not guilty. From that direction, I have never 
awakened a more tender sentiment than sympathy, I am 
sure.” 

[41] 




The Man With the Face 


“Now then, Mr. Mortell, I am compelled to question 
your sincerity. I do not undestand your purpose but I am 
quite certain that you are conscious of your own power 
and please do not make it necessary for me to tell you 
that you are dangerously handsome, for you know that.” 

Mortell did not laugh. His answer was astounding. 

“Miss Walker, you have a big heart. I am the green¬ 
est ladies’ man of this or any other age. If I did not be¬ 
lieve you were trying to please me, I would be bound to 
take offence.” 

“You frighten me, really you do. I know you are a 
man of unquestioning determination — Fred has told us 
so much — and I am sure you are humoring us to-night, 
just for the mere novelty of the thing and because you have 
time to kill. You are a very clever man, Mr. Mortell.” 

“I wish I were just a tenth as clever as Fred Bellamy.” 

“Fred is very clever. I should say rather that you 
are unusual. I wish you were one tenth as talkative as 
Fred.” 

“What would you have me talk about, then?” he 
asked resignedly. 

“Yourself, of course. Fred has told us so many things 
about your pranks while a student at the German Universi¬ 
ties. I am wild to hear of them first hand. Please talk 
about them, about yourself.” 

Mortell groaned. “You must make the proper al¬ 
lowance for Fred’s enthusiasm, you know, and German 
Universities are much maligned institutions. Fred is a 
natural raconteur. I cannot afford to take that privilege 
from him.” 

“I am afraid you are selfish, Mr. Mortell, but I shall 
get even with you. Here we are at the theatre, but after 

[42] 




Mr, Mortell Introduces Himself 


the show, I shall mete out to you the proper punishment — 
Fred will have to racont the whole story of your life right 
in your very presence.” 

Mortell felt like shouting for joy but he managed 
to keep his face straight. 


[43] 



CHAPTER VI. 

Mr. Mortell Learns More of His Own History 


T HE theatre was crowded. It was opening night for 
the latest product of a Chicago playwright — a prob¬ 
lem play that demanded some preliminary discussion 
— a respite for which Mr. Mortell was duly thankful; and 
until the curtain began to rise, he had no serious concern 
for himself. 

In a box directly in front, sat the menace, a woman 
in resplendent attire, of early middle age, whose searching 
eyes made him uncomfortable. Bellamy, with a slower 
sweep of the audience, found a smile of eager recognition 
awaiting him. 

“Our very observing friend, Mrs. Collins,” he whis¬ 
pered. “You shall have the privilege of an introduction.” 

Mortell gave a start. “Mrs. Collins? Not to-night, 
please.” 

Bellamy eyed him wonderingly. “You know Mrs. 
Collins, perhaps?” 

“I have heard of her. I have been warned. She is 
inquisitive.” 

Bellamy looked at him again; but the play was on, 
and made no comment. Mortell missed the drift of the 
first act entirely. There were too many other things to 
think of, and the knowledge that Mrs. Collins was looking 
at him all of the time, even though her eyes were upon 
the stage, disturbed him. Bellamy was absorbed in the 

[44] 


Mr . Mortell Learns More of His Own History 


play. His conduct was natural in the extreme. Mortell 
wished it were less so. 

At the first intermission, Bellamy piloted him to safety 
and surprised him again by ignoring the reason for his 
caution. 

“Why in the world doesn’t he say something?” Mor¬ 
tell asked himself. But Bellamy did not grant him an 
idle moment, leading him here and there under a rapid 
fire of verbal artillery about everything save themselves; 
yet, every now and then, Mortell realized that, despite 
his loquaciousness, Bellamy was doing a great deal of 
thinking and observing in his own original way. 

Returned to their seats with the curtain about to 
ascend, the ladies informed them that Mrs. Collins had 
called and they had given her as complete a history of their 
interesting guest as time would permit. 

“What did you tell her?” Mortell asked. 

“That you are rich, talented, have studied in the 
Universities of several different countries; and speak 
French, Spanish, and German like a native. It has been 
a family tradition, this international education, ever since 
the sixteenth century, when a famous progenitor, a knight 
of the tottering Byzantine Empire, involved in some un¬ 
fortunate political upheaval, fled to France and founded 
there a new home. His house flourished from the first 
and his armour is still a treasured possession of his de¬ 
scendants. The name, originally Latin, was changed in 
deference to the new allegiance to the French ‘Mortel,’ 
and the second T was added when you came to America 
to preserve the original French pronunciation. Fred has 
never gone very extensively into the etymology of your 

[45] 




The Man With the Face 


name, but this explanation appeared to me to be the proper 
one.” 

“The only one possible,” Mortell assured her with 
such emphasis and in so natural a manner that Bellamy 
nearly lost his equilibrium. He shot a puzzled glance 
at his guest which no one saw and Miss Walker was carried 
along by her own enthusiasm. 

“You are the sole survivor of a most romantic race,” 
she continued. “We did not have time to go into details, 
so contented ourselves with a mere allusion to the various 
wars and adventures which claimed so many stalwart sons 
and left you in early manhood with all its wealth and the 
responsibility of keeping its fame alive.” 

Mortell bowed low. 

“Mrs. Collins was very much impressed and we have 
promised to take you to meet her, some evening.” 

Bellamy nudged his companion. 

“Your social fortune is made, old chap,” he said. 

Mortell was very serious when he faced his eulogist. 
“I cannot properly express my gratitude or‘admiration,” 
he said, “and now since you have exhausted the subject, 
I doubt not that we can find topics more profitable than 
my own unimportant career.” 

“We may ask a question now and then, may we not?” 
Miss Walker pleaded with feigned resignation. 

After the performance, the little party walked to the 
“Old Milano.” 

“I like to come here,” Bellamy began soon as they 
were comfortably settled, “because you get your money’s 
worth — more than in any other restaurant in the city. 
Here you meet people who have not forgotten how to be 

[46] 




Mr. Mortell Learns More of His Own History 


natural. I like the old fashioned wall paper, the old 
fashioned coal stove; the proprietor visits with you and 
the pianist plays what you ask her to play.” 

“And did you ever observe,” Miss Chabot continued, 
“that you hear nothing but the best music?” 

“And why not?” Are not the Italians — the modern 
Italians — the best living exponents of real music? How¬ 
ever, my affection for this place is not only for its artistic 
qualities. It’s fine, in this extravagant age, to discover a 
restaurant that can be run at a profit just because it 
eliminates the wasteful, and to realize at the same time 
that the absence of frills actually brings us greater comfort 
and pleasure. The happiest month of my whole life was a 
month spent in a little cottage in Wisconsin, a few Summers 
ago. I wore a pair of overalls and a hickory shirt all 
month. I shaved twice, read a paper four times, never 
thought of a telephone, carried our drinking water from a 
spring a mile away, rustled our fuel from the woods, caught 
our own fish, picked berries for our fruit, and lived like a 
man.” 

“But the earth is too crowded to permit such a career 
to many of us,” Mortell objected. “Savages require a 
larger area to gain a livelihood from than civilized man. 
Farmers attempting to tame wild ducks have learned this 
lesson, for the number that can be raised on a farm is 
only a fraction of the number of tame ducks that can live 
in luxury there.” 

“I don’t doubt that. Civilization is all right but it’s 
these artificial standards I object to. Many times gradu¬ 
ating classes have adopted simple gowns because there 
were poor girls in the class. Why don’t the Women’s 
Club do the same? Why limit such a splendid idea to 

[47] 



The Man With the Face 


a graduating class? There is no greater tyrant than cus¬ 
tom. We create it and are destroyed by it. No one can run 
counter to Public Opinion. It did not think poor Mandell 
should live as other men could, and when he tried to, it 
drove him away—” 

“To suicide,” little Miss C'habot interrupted with 
a sad shake of her head. 

Mortell looked troubled. “Does anyone think that?” 
he asked incredulously. 

Bellamy was surprised again. “A great many do,” 
he assured him, “but you seem strangely interested. Were 
you acquainted with Ralph Mandell?” 

Before he could reply, Miss Walker began speaking. 

“Oh, that reminds me of something Mrs. Collins said 
about you, Mr. Mortell. Come, what will you give for 
a fine trader?” 

“Trader?” Mortell echoed uncertainly. “What might 
that be?” 

Miss Walker shook her head and smiled. 

“It’s no fun to tease so serious a man, and I will tell 
you, Mr. Mortell, without any bargaining, only a girl is 
always fishing for traders. Well, Mrs. Collins said you 
were as handsome as Mandell was ugly and she thinks you 
have a prettier name, too.” 

Mortell blushed furiously. 

“Don’t you like your trader, old chap?” Bellamy teas- 
ingly inquired. 

“I never thought of Mandell as being ugly,” he sur¬ 
prised them by declaring. 

Bellamy looked at him searchingly. “So, you have 
met him?” 

“Yes, I have met him. I know him quite well.” 

[48] 



Mr. Mortell Learns More of His Own History 


“The deuce you say.” Bellamy’s eyes fairly devoured 
his strange companion. “The world is small. When did 
you see him last?” 

“Just a few days ago.” 

It was another occasion for a rapid exchange of ques¬ 
tioning glances. 

“Then he’s alive?” Bellamy ventured. 

“Alive, but anxious to be forgotten.” 

The interest of his listeners was very real. “What 
does that mean?” Bellamy asked. 

“You have expressed it very nicely. It’s the Public 
Stare that drove him away. I ran across him in New 
Orleans. He will never return to Chicago. I am sure 
you will never see him again, not that he intends to destroy 
himself but —” 

“You speak as with authority,” Bellamy interrupted. 
“I am happier than I can tell you to hear that he has not 
committed suicide. Frankly, I had come to wonder if he had 
not employed the methods made famous by the late Leut- 
gardt, the Chicago Sausage Maker, who was convicted of 
dissolving his wife’s body in a strong solution of caustic 
potash. It seemed incredulous that a man so marked could 
disappear in any other manner.” 

“But he has disappeared,” Mortell quietly insisted. 

“How? They must have been looking for him at 
New Orleans and his picture was in every paper.” 

“There are ways,” Mortell persisted. 

“Do you know the way?” Bellamy challenged. 

“Oh, do tell us, Mr. Mortell,” the ladies entreated. 

Mortell became very mysterious. “The Buddhists’ 
Summum Bonum is oblivion. Mandell has suffered and 
brought suffering to others. He is convinced that the only 

[49] 



The Man With the Face 


logical way out of his difficulties is a permanent effacement. 
So far he has succeeded. Shall I interfere with this happy 
consummation, granted that I could do so? believing also 
that the price of his very existence depends upon this 
complete oblivion? Would you, yourselves, care to share 
this responsibility? I have told you enough to show that 
I have entered into confidential relations with him, so 
don’t you see that you are demanding an impossible thing 
of me?” 

Bellamy shook his head helplessly. “You are beyond 
my depth. Don’t go any farther.” 

“I have always suspected, Mr. Mortell,” Miss Walker 
insisted very seriously, “that you would tell just those 
things about yourself or anyone else that you saw fit to tell, 
and would make them appear logical and sufficient. I have 
supreme admiration for your resources, Mr. Mortell; and 
while I am sorely disappointed to have to endure a mys¬ 
tery, no doubt for life, I am happy nevertheless to know 
that I have not misunderstood you. Henceforth, I promise 
to be very discreet in my questions.” 

Mortell looked hurt. “You appear to question my 
sincerity, Miss Walker.” 

“I beg your pardon then, Mr. Mortell,” she replied 
with emphasis. “I do not in the least doubt your sincerity. 
I do not ask for another word of privileged information, 
as the lawyers call it. Naturally, I am disappointed, for 
curiosity is the most powerful human or feminine impulse. 
If I seem to take your explanation a trifle too lightly, it’s 
because I believe that were the exigencies of the occasion 
of even more consequence, you would be capable of man¬ 
aging the situation just as cleverly.” 

[5o] 




Mr. Mortell Learns More of His Own History 


Bellamy held up a hand in protest. “For the love of 
Mike, Grace, where did you get all that language? 

Miss Walker laughed good naturedly. 

“It may be somewhat masculine to employ such pon¬ 
derous sentences, but all joking aside, I have a very personal 
feeling in this matter. I have always thought highly of 
Mr. Mandell. Consider what a wonderful thing it was to 
succeed despite such handicaps and to inspire the love of 
such a dear girl as Helen Verban. Think of his magna¬ 
nimity in providing so handsomely for her and then re¬ 
nouncing all possible claim to her gratitude. We may read 
of such unselfishness, but none of us ever saw it before. 
I think he is one in a million, and it may sound foolish 
to you, but I have never neglected to pray for him every 
night since he disappeared.” 

Mortell was strangely affected. 

“Why foolish, Miss Walker?” he asked in a hushed 
voice. “Why should we make light of prayer? Is it foolish 
to believe anything at all? As King Arthur said, more 
things are done by prayer than the world ever dreamed 
of, for prayers are to move men, and that is all^that is 
necessary. You are splendid, Miss Walker. I 

He suddenly realized how far he was going but the 
young lady understood him and Bellamy laughingly inter- 

“I must guard the interests of my absent friend, 
Osborne, Mr. Mortell,” he warned with studied firmness. 
Which put a much lighter aspect upon the situation at 

° nCe “I think someone ought to advise Mrs. Collins to 
drop that fellow, Standing,” little Miss Chabot declared, 
unwilling to change the subject entirely. 

[5i] 



The Man With the Face 




“He is not a social asset any longer,” Bellamy agreed. 

“He’s a perfect mystery to me,” Miss Walker ad¬ 
mitted. “I wonder if anyone knows anything about him.” 

“Mandell knows something about him,” Bellamy re¬ 
plied. “He was interested, for some reason. Standing 
never works and always has money, the source of which 
has not been explained. Mandell told me a few things. 
I got the impression that Standing might not be his real 
name. I never could endure him. I saw him take a good 
licking from poor Mandell. I wouldn’t have missed the 
sight for anything. But the fellow is cheeky, and doubt¬ 
less still imagines he can win Helen.” 

“Does she countenance him?” Mortell nervously 
inquired. 

Bellamy looked at him as if to inquire “where in the 
world do you come in here” and replied very emphatically. 

“She does not. Of course, she does not.” 

“Helen will never marry anyone but Mandell,” Miss 
Chabot insisted. 

“She is a deep little creature,” Miss Walker agreed. 
“I have never met a girl like her. I am sorry too. She 
would make some good man a perfect wife, but she is so 
loyal. I wish you could convince her that Mandell is 
alive, Mr. Mortell.” 

“Perhaps that will be possible.” 

“And you might inspire a new attachment, you are so 
wonderful with the English Language.” 

Mortell blushed furiously and helplessly. 

Bellamy looked inquiringly from one to the other and 
smiled. 

“I am very much concerned for my absent friend, 

[52] 




Mr, Mortell Learns More of His Own History 


Jack,” he teased. “There is no stopping you two. Do you 
mean all you say, Grace?” 

Miss Walker looked so serious that everyone laughed. 

“Of course, I do. Helen should be too human to 
remain satisfied with a mere memory; but it would take 
someone from a distance like Mr. Mortell to interest her, 
someone who would not remind her of her own past, some¬ 
one who could show her a new outlook upon life.” 

Bellamy drew himself slowly to his feet. 

“Mortell, there’s your chance. Come, folks, it’s grow¬ 
ing late and I want to take my friend home. We will get 
rid of you first,” looking at the ladies, “and then for a 
long talk about old times. Come, we can continue this 
visit some other evening, but only upon condition that 
Jack be present.” 

“Don’t be silly, Fred,” Miss Walker retorted. “I’ve 
discovered my niche at last. That careless remark of 
yours, Freddie, has awakened me to new possibilities. I 
am going into the matrimonial business.” 

“That’s obvious,” Fred chuckled. 

“As a promoter, I mean,” she declared with a shy 
look at Mortell. 


[53] 




CHAPTER VII. 


Mr. Mortell Accepts a Past 

T HE ride home was a quiet one. Miss Walker asked 
no more questions, and Bellamy was strangely pre¬ 
occupied. Mortell suspected that he was planning his 
quiz, and began to fear the adventure had looked altogether 
too easy. What was his surprise, then, upon alighting at 
Bellamy’s pretentious home, to find himself hurrying up 
the steps, dashing through a long hall, and nearly running 
into a suite where his host, pausing only long enough to 
see him located, grasped his hand. 

“This is your apartment, old chap. I hope you will 
find everything you need. Ring if you think of anything 
else. There are water and liquids in that little room to 
your right. I’ll have some sandwiches brought in. There 
are cigars and cigarettes in the case. You are tired. I 
will see you in the morning. Good night.” 

“Wait,” Mortell protested. “I thought you wanted 
to talk. I don’t feel — eh — just right about this — eh — 
affair. I want to tell you a little about myself. There may 
be some mistake.” 

Bellamy smiled indulgently. “It’s possible, I suppose.” 
He extended his hand again, smiling all the while. 
“I have enjoyed the evening immensely, old chap.” He 
leaned closer. “Don’t worry. I like you and I have con¬ 
fidence in my own judgment. I’ll meet you at breakfast 
— say ten o’clock. Is that too early?” 

[54] 


Mr. Mortell Accepts a Past 


Mortell helplessly assented. 

“Then, once more, welcome and good night,” and 
before he could interfere, his strange host was gone and 
the door closed behind him. 

“Now what do you think of that?” Mortell exclaimed, 
standing irresolute in the middle of the room. “It doesn’t 
look just right. I wonder what he is driving at?” 

There was no answer to his query and he sat down. 
“Pshaw, he takes it cool just the same. Wonder if he 
thinks he knows who I am.” 

He looked straight ahead and continued his self com¬ 
munion. 

“He may be a clever actor but not clever enough for 
that.” His eyes shone with conviction. “It’s just like him 
to pick up a fellow on the street and take him home.” 

He was silent a long time, then shook his head doubt- 
ingly. “I cannot help admiring his quiet assurance — his 
supreme confidence in his own judgment. I ought to be 
satisfied. I have to start sometime, and I have started, 
all right.” 

Mortell was young and healthy. It had been a very 
interesting evening. He was tired. He couldn’t settle 
things to-night, and the suspense began to soothe him. It 
was something to look forward to in the morning; some¬ 
thing worth sleeping for, and he slept. 

Breakfast was a leisurely function. Bellamy spoke 
of everything but his guest. They discussed the political 
issues of the day and discovered similar views upon religion 
and many other matters. 

“Would you care to drink a cocktail?” Bellamy asked 
as a sort of afterthought. 


[55] 



The Man With the Face 


“No, thanks. Last night, was my first introduction to 
strong drink and I confess that I was not favorably im¬ 
pressed.” 

Bellamy replaced the decanter. “I don’t drink the 
stuff very often nor because I like it,” he explained. ‘ It s 
a misconception of what constitutes good fellowship, that’s 
aU.” 

He glanced into a mirror that topped the buffet. “The 
boys in college used to call me ‘Whiskey Beak.’ ” 

Mortell noted again his host’s florid complexion, 
which seemed upon occasions, especially conscious ones, to 
spend its greatest energy upon the nose. 

“Rank nonsense,” Mortell exclaimed, “you are merely 
of the sanguine type. I know enough physiology to ap¬ 
preciate the fact that you have no whiskey beak.” 

Bellamy was greatly pleased. Evidently, it was a 
rather tender subject. “Margery thinks it colors up a lot 
more when I take a taste of liquor, and my tastes are be¬ 
coming far between. I have no ambition to fill an inebri¬ 
ate’s grave. I believe in temperance in all things. Some 
men go after wealth, for instance, like the drunkard goes 
after whiskey. Old Doctor Thompson had an excellent 
illustration of the idea. 

“He was interne in a large general hospital where, 
of course, he drew no salary but came in occasionally for 
a tip. He was happy and contented, getting his three 
squares a day and a world of experience. One memorable 
morning, in his mail was a check for one hundred dollars 
from a grateful patient. A few minutes later, some one 
else gave him ten dollars. He went to his room at once to 
try to realize the magnitude of his good fortune, and 
within ten minutes had become entirely wretched.” 

[56] 



Mr. Mortell Accepts a Past 


“Wretched?” Mortell echoed incredulously. 

“Positively.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he discovered three hundred and fifty dol¬ 
lars’ worth of things that he had never needed before and 
there was only one hundred and ten dollars to buy them 
with. I tried once to borrow a few dollars from a wealthy 
cousin in the days of my adversity. He had then an in¬ 
come of at least one hundred thousand dollars a year, and 
was always assuring me and my friends of his anxiety to 
help me, but he never meant a word of it, and could not 
spare me five hundred dollars because he needed so many 
things himself.” 

“I have never thought of it in that light,” Mortell 
admitted. 

“How else can you explain it? The rich are not more 
charitable because they need so many things. Few men 
get any real satisfaction from great wealth. I have 
been very fortunate, very lucky, and the first thing I did 
after making our strike was to distribute one hundred and 
twenty-five thousand dollars among some needy friends. It 
has been my salvation. Had I waited a month longer, I 
would never have done it. I am rational now and not 
afraid to spend a dollar. I made the proper start.” 

Mortell looked about him with new interest. 

“You have spent some money here.” 

Bellamy shook his head deprecatingly. “Purely selfish, 
but I have a small list of beneficiaries — nothing to com¬ 
pare however with what Mandell has done.” 

He ceased speaking, looking beyond the dining room, 
thinking likely of other aspects of the strange career of the 
absent attorney, while Mortell, still waiting upon the pecul- 

[57] 




The Man With the Face 


iar mood of his interesting host was beginning to forget 
himself, when suddenly he realized that Bellamy’s eyes were 
fastened upon him. 

“Do you know,” Bellamy deliberately announced, you 
look rather familiar to me?” 

Mortell was thunderstruck but managed to save ap¬ 
pearances. 

“Of course, you met me at the Harvard-Yale game.” 

Bellamy laughed in the most natural manner. “Really 
you didn’t take that seriously, did you?” 

Mortell cleared an imaginary obstruction from his 
throat. 

“Well, no — I did not. To tell the truth, I never 
saw a foot ball game in my life.” 

Bellamy laughed again. “This is becoming interest¬ 
ing” 

Mortell looked up cautiously. “And you are not posi¬ 
tive that you ever met me at all?” 

Bellamy met his eyes squarely. “I don’t think I can 
place you,” he acknowledged. It was impossible to tell 
which of the two was more embarrassed by this admission. 

“I had a letter in my pocket — a letter from Mandell; 
but after your little comedy, it seemed quite superfluous.” 

Bellamy was determined not to give more offence. 

“Forget that, old chap. I admit my comedy was 
coarse, but the end justifies the means. We are acquainted 
now. We are going to be friends. The girls are not 
narrow. We can adjust any little difference. They will 
enjoy this thing immensely.” 

Mortell was very serious. “That’s the trouble — the 
real difficulty. What about that history of my life?” 

Bellamy was beginning to waver. 

[58] 





Mr. Mortell Accepts a Past 


“Of course, you did not take that seriously, either.” 

“Why not?” 

Bellamy looked at him searchingly. Mortell’s eyes 
never wavered. 

“Now, I am compelled to make a confession. I have 
much leisure. I must kill time some way and have acquired 
a literary bug. I have never sold a story or even tried to 
sell one but I have written stacks of them — several million 
words, no doubt — and that history of your life is one of 
my creations.” 

“But the ladies believed it.” 

Bellamy shook his head sadly. 

“Poor girls, they have never suspected this weak¬ 
ness, and their endurance is worthy of a greater reward. 
They are the only audience I have ever had and they have 
been charitable enough to listen to my outpourings and 
accept my fancies as genuine experiences.” 

Mortell studied a moment before replying. 

“Suppose,” he suggested with some hesitancy, “sup¬ 
pose I should accept this romance as the true story of my 
life. What would you say to that?” 

Bellamy tried to laugh but Mortell was inflexible. 

“It would certainly be a most remarkable coincidence: 
but, confound it, man, you cannot mean it. You are not in 
earnest, are you?” 

Mortell arose and took a turn about the room. Never 
had he appeared more determined. 

“Most people will not tolerate a mystery,” he began 
rather vaguely, “but I have reason to believe that you can 
and will, if necessary. A few explanations lead always to 
more explanations. The story of my life has already gone 
forth. It would be an unending task to change it. 

[59] 




The Man With the Face 


“My conduct so far has been not without design. I 
was provided with information concerning you. I was sent 
to you. Doubtless, I might have awaited a more opportune 
moment to announce myself, but that is done. I had a 
letter from Mandell — merely a formal note of introduc¬ 
tion. I had a story to tell you; and now, at the risk of 
losing your confidence, I am going to admit that it was not 
the true story of my life.” 

Mortell was leaning over the back of a chair talking 
low, and Bellamy sat opposite, bewildered and fascinated 
by the strange recital. Mortell looked at him frankly and 
appealingly. 

“This is the most trying and likewise the most pre- 
sumptious moment of my life; for I have come to you, a 
stranger, asking for your friendship and demanding, be¬ 
cause I find it so difficult to lie to you, that you lie for me 
instead.” 

He paused but Bellamy left him no doubt of his in¬ 
terest. 

“I shall not lie to you. I can tell you this: I have 
never done anything criminal or dishonorable. I come 
from an excellent though forgotten family. I have no 
enemies to fear or at least none that I do fear. I have 
ample resources and will never require financial assistance. 
I do need assistance in other directions. That is one reason 
for coming to you. Let me be more explicit. 

“I have arranged to succeed Mr. Mandell. I hold a 
diploma from the Tulane School of Law, and my pre¬ 
liminary requirements are sufficient. I shall take the State 
Examination as the easiest way to qualify. I expect to 
make good. I am asking two years’ time —” 

[60] 




Mr. Mortell Accepts a Past 


He broke off abruptly, apparently expecting some com¬ 
ment which Bellamy with a new enthusiasm was not slow 
in making. 

“That’s some contract, old chap,” he agreed with 
shining eyes, “but, by George, I’m beginning to believe you 
are equal to it. But don’t let me interrupt you.” 

Mortell manifested his thanks. “I promise first of 
all to be a gentleman. I intend to work hard, but I want 
you to back me as you did last night. I want you to blaze 
the way before me, accepting what I tell you as sufficient and 
absolving me for the present from further information until 
the two years are gone.” 

Bellamy leaned farther forward, dismissing the con¬ 
ditions with a wave of his hand. 

“Don’t think for a second, old chap, that I brought you 
here to an inquisition. I am glad to hear what you care 
to tell me. It is interesting, indeed. I am broad enough, 
I hope, to appreciate your confidence in me which ought 
to be negative as well as positive. The situation appeals 
to me and I have the gambler’s instinct. Mandell sent 
you to me. You could not have come with better creden¬ 
tials. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” 

“Thank you, a thousand times. Let it go as a gamb¬ 
ler’s chance. If I make good, as I expect to, it will be 
a great pleasure to pay — to reveal everything. If I fail, 

I shall walk away with my hat on my head. Meanwhile, 

I want to be known as Ralph Mortell with the history 
which you have so cleverly constructed for me. We need 
say nothing about my professional history. Time will tell 
that.” He looked almost defiant when he continued. “And 
now if you cannot consistently enter into this affair with 
absolute unreserve, I am depending upon your honor as a 
[61] 




The Man With the Face 


man not to say anything nor do anything that might prove 
to be prejudicial to me.” 

Bellamy appeared greatly relieved. As first, he was 
disposed to regard the tale as a joke, but as the story 
unfolded, he became thoroughly absorbed, and the sudden 
denouement found him the more collected of the two. He 
jumped to his feet. 

“Mortell, old man, give me your hand,” he com¬ 
manded. “You have come to the right place. Who the 
Devil could refuse a man who looks a fellow in the eye as 
you do?” 

He laughed self consciously. “Pardon me, old chap, 
I agree with Miss Walker, and I am pretty sure you never 
consider any side but a winning side and I am beginning 
to believe that your side is always the winning side. You 
have cast a spell over me as you do, always.” 

Mortell was happy. “I am afraid you are a regular 
Blarney,” he protested, “but your generosity is immeasur¬ 
able.” 

Bellamy shook his head. “Generosity nothing—aren’t 
you in the habit of getting what you want?” 

Mortell laughed in spite of himself. “If everyone 
flatters me as you and Miss Walker do, I’ll soon believe 
so.” 

Bellamy took a step nearer and studied his guest more 
closely. “Excuse me, old man, you remember I said there 
was something about you that appeared familiar to me. 
No,” he admitted, shaking his head for emphasis, “I can’t 
place you at all. I might have seen you in a crowd some 
time.” 

“Look carefully,” Mortell insisted. 

Bellamy shook his head again. “We often meet people 

[62] 



Mr. Mortell Accepts a Past 


who impress us that way until we become better acquainted 
with them. There is nothing to this idea at all.” 

“You are sure?” 

“Of course, but have no fear. This is to be no half 
hearted sponsorship. It makes no difference who you are 
or what your name might be. It is what you are and a 
name cannot alter that. I have given you my word. I 
accept you as the reincarnation of my own fancy — as 
Ralph Mortell for two years or ten years or a thousand 
years. I shall not spy upon you. I believe in you because 
I believe in myself and in my own judgment, and because 
I know you must have satisfied Mandell else he would not 
have sent you, and I believe in his judgment and have no 
fear for your success, and I am for you. Shake again, old 
chap. Now let us sit down and have a smoke and lay a 
few plans for the future.” 

The first thing Bellamy did after Mortell departed 
was to make another perusal of Mandell’s card in the 
Legal Forum which was inserted shortly after his disap¬ 
pearance. 

“For Sale:— 

“Unquestionably the most lucrative one man practice 
in Corporation Law and allied branches in the United 
States. 

“On account of the sudden removal of the owner, 
an unusual opportunity is offered a young attorney of 
proven preliminary and legal education, with special knowl¬ 
edge and experience in corporation law and the ability and 
ambition to interest and satisfy clients of the most exacting 
discrimination, to assume this attractive specialty. 

[63] 





The Man With the Face 


“Office location and appointments are in keeping with 
the requirements of the business. 

“Applicant must convince the advertiser that he 
possesses these additional qualifications — ability to write 
acceptable professional articles, ability to talk convincingly 
and eloquently — evidence of success however brief, upon 
the stage or lecture platform will be given consideration — 
a pleasing personality, more than average good looks, no 
matrimonial entanglements or prospects, and the courage 
to undertake this proposition without the advantage of a 
personal introduction. 

“In answering this advertisement, give full details in 
first letter including proofs and photograph. To the right 
man, the advertiser will furnish his reasons for leaving and 
for these particular requirements; and will be willing to 
finance his successor if necessary and will offer suggestions 
which he is positive will lead to complete professional and 
social success.” 

Bellamy pushed his chair back from the desk and 
settled down into the attitude which a man of leisure 
assumes when he desires to think with the least possible 
physical exertion. 

“I believe I know why our Mr. Mortell looks so 
familiar,” he told himself. “I’ll venture that he is an actor 
or lecturer as well as a lawyer. I have probably seen him 
on the stage— the Lord knows under what name.” 

He was greatly impressed by the thought, and draw¬ 
ing his chair closer to the desk again, he wrote two names, 
one above the other. 

“Ralph Mandell” 

“Ralph Mortell” 

“Whew,” he ejaculated, looking with knit brows at an 
[64] 




Mr . Mortell Accepts a Past 


imaginary confidant across the desk, “change three little 
letters and you have it. Our Mr. Mortell, alias this and 
alias that, is probably a wonderful actor, an excellent law 
student who has not been admitted to the bar and needs 
credentials and has to use those of Mandell. Mandell 
knew he could deliver, however. Gee, it’s a trifle risky, 
nothing short of forgery, but it’s easy, man, childishly easy. 
Well, it’s their game, and Mortell might just as well be 
Mortell as Jenks or Smith. I should worry.” 

Once more, he settled down into the lazy man’s atti¬ 
tude. 

“There is going to be something doing in the old 
town,” he chuckled. “Well, I am betting on the dark 
horse. Mandell knew what he was doing — he always 
knew, and Mr. Mortell has been well groomed. He 
knows the ground pretty well — knows all about the bunch 
here — knew me — knows Helen — wonderful fellow! 
Wonderful is no name for him. He’s incomparable, that’s 
it; handsome, smart, confident.” He pointed his finger at 
the imaginary confidant again. “He’s going to get pretty 
near what he wants. He’s that kind; and I am going to 
help him.” 


[65] 




CHAPTER VIII. 


Helen Explores 


WRETCHED little lady now dwelled in the Ancient 



House of Verban — fearful of the curious public 


^ ~**and the well meant but bothersome solicitude of her 
set. She was a lady of high ideals, and Mandell’s de¬ 
formities had impressed her only as they would have in a 
brother. She saw nothing unusual in their attachment; 
and the financial storm that threatened her father’s house 
and Mandell’s magnificent rescue made her believe he was 
the best friend of all; and she thought it would afford her 
much more pleasure to spend a quiet evening with him, 
discussing some good book, than to go to theatre or a ball 
with anyone else she knew. 

What a wonderful man he was! How deep and 
strong! What a marvelous memory; what power with 
language; and she loved to hear him talk despite his notori¬ 
ous lisp. How she enjoyed his pictures of remote and 
romantic parts of the world! How vividly he recalled to 
her the interesting characters of history! And he loved 
her and stood at a distance always ready to protect her. 

She realized after it was too late how sensitive he 
had always been. She abused herself mercilessly for mis¬ 
managing the whole affair and making it possible for Stand¬ 
ing to perpetrate his detestable trick. For a time after 
his disappearance, the papers were full of terrible things 
until it became the general conviction that he had made 


[66] 


Helen Explores 


use of some method of self destruction that meant com¬ 
plete physical annihilation; and people accepted it as quite 
the proper ending to such a morbid existence. How she 
despised the thought and hated a few blundering sym¬ 
pathizers who suggested it as consolation. 

So, not knowing what else to do, she had shut her¬ 
self in this big, cold, lonely, house; certain that were he 
living, she would hear from him again. For long hours, 
she would sit resting her head in her hands, listening, look¬ 
ing far away, unwilling to come to any definite conclusion. 
Little lines began to form about the corners of her big 
brown eyes, but the dimples were still in her cheeks and a 
wealth of wavy, raven black hair fell about her shoulders 
and made her look like a child in trouble. 

One morning, came a letter in his own handwriting, 
mailed at New Orleans. For a while, she held it — afraid 
to open it. She read it in a daze. It was so different from 
what she thought it ought to be! 

“Dear Helen:— 

“When you read this you may know that I am in 
a world of strange people. I do not announce my destina¬ 
tion and am concealing other things for reasons that will 
appear before you finish this letter. 

“I doubt not that my going away will bring you noth¬ 
ing but gain. I never could escape the haunting fear that 
your regard for me might be influenced by a feeling of 
gratitude; and I should always have believed that I had 
taken an unfair advantage of you. This is precisely the 
thing I do not wish to do. 

“Perhaps you have read Maeterlinck’s essay on The 
Silence.’ If not, please read it that you may understand 

[67] 




The Man With the Face 


me better. You may recall that I never had any intimate 
friends since I lost my father, and even during his life, he 
kept me to myself. My education was provided by a 
private tutor. I read law under the supervision of an 
eminent attorney but never saw the inside of a law school. 
I never belonged to a club. My intimates, in fact, were 
books. Early in life, I acquired the habit of reading in 
solitude; and as the impulse came, I would visit with fav¬ 
orite characters until it became easy for me to create my 
own atmosphere and incidents. I loved to sit in the dark, 
engaged in this agreeable exercise. 

“I have always tried to escape publicity. I realize 
my own limitations and believe the easiest way is the best. 
A day in the courtroom was ever a day of agony. Social 
intercourse — that is something I know nothing of. You 
were good to me to permit me to see you, but do you 
recall it was only in the evening I dared come? 

“For me, there is nothing but The Silence.’ It is 
my desire not to have to answer questions. I am tired. I 
want rest. You must not believe however that my life is 
to be barren or wretched, and let me make it emphatic 
that I have no thought of self destruction. Pretence is the 
greater part of wisdom. No one can look into another’s 
heart nor into another’s mind. Happiness is also that part 
which another cannot see. I have the capacity for happi¬ 
ness but I cannot explain it to anyone else. You may find 
a hint of it in the Essay on The Silence.’ 

“So, after all I am very selfish for I have considered 
only my own side of the question. 

“I have sold by practice and my successor will soon 
be in my old office. I am confident that he will fill my 
place and more than that. He is a gentleman and, if I 

[68] 




Helen Explores 


may be so bold, a man of very pleasing address. I advise 
you to consult him upon all matters relative to the 
management of your property for I have taken the liberty 
to acquaint him with all details; in consequence of my 
liberal instructions, he may imagine himself already any¬ 
thing but a stranger to you. 

“Now I perceive that I have added another mystery 
in this Unknown but I leave the problem to you for 
your own solution. You will meet him and he can tell his 
own story. He is a lucky chap. He has money and brains, 
perhaps; time will tell, how much of the latter. 

“I am enclosing a card of Doctor Gordon’s. He was 
my outlet for a small amount of charity. You will note 
that his location suggests charity. The Doctor has no 
conception of business methods nor any appreciation of 
the value of money, but a heart as large as his purse is 
small. I believe that the little hospital over which he 
presides is built upon a firm foundation but I am persuaded 
that you will not permit it to come to want. 

“This letter is from my mind. From my heart — I 
could not write. I have loved you, dear little woman, and 
that love shall be ever with me, the only companion I need. 
I shall live with it and talk to it, forever. 

Farewell, 

Ralph Mandell.” 

She read the letter a second time before she would 
believe it was genuine, and the reaction came. He had 
abandond her, willfully and deliberately. She was actually 
a jilted woman. The thought frightened her and made 
her cold. With a look almost of guilt she locked the letter 
in her desk. 


[ 69 ] 




The Man With the Face 


Her mind was filled with all sorts of ideas; one of 
them of revenge, and she pictured the effect of an alliance 
with the smirking Standing upon the absent and watching 
Mandell. But would he be watching? She surely would 
not make such a sacrifice unless she were sure that Mandell 
would know it and suffer from it, but of course, he would 
not know it — how could he? She was glad that it would 
not be necessary to marry a man she despised. 

At last, came the announcement of the new attorney, 
Ralph Mortell, successor to Mr. Ralph Mandell, the cele¬ 
brated Corporation lawyer. What a peculiar coincidence 
in their names! However, the papers neglected that 
feature entirely for the more interesting discussion of the 
strange disappearance of the eccentric lawyer. 

It seemed but a week later when a copy of a local 
magazine, made up entirely of Chicago contributions and 
devoted to Chicago’s interests and Chicago’s men and 
women, came to her with a blue mark about one page. 
There was a picture of a man, Mr. Ralph Mortell, Att’y- 
at-Law, Successor to Mr. Ralph Mandell, at the top. He 
was exasperatingly handsome, and she felt that she must 
hate him because he was so handsome. What right had 
anyone to succeed poor Ralph Mandell and be handsome? 

There was a very flattering sketch of the new attorney, 
emphasizing his early history, his meeting Bellamy in 
Europe, his acquaintance with Mandell, his wonderful 
grades at the State Board Examination, his splendid ap¬ 
pearance, his pleasant address, his fine command of English 
— for he had already appeared in court as associate counsel 
upon an important criminal case which Mandell had under¬ 
taken before his flight and made the closing plea for the 
defence and created a sensation, so masterful was his effort. 

[70] 




Helen Explores 


Next day, her favorite daily featured the article and 
there was his picture again on the first page. In the society 
column, appeared another disquieting announcement. This 
presumptuous being had taken a house in a very exclusive 
district, not far from her own, and was rapidly becoming 
as prominent in social as in legal circles. So she found 
her resentment for Mandell less violent and herself taking 
sides with him against this upstart with the handsome face. 

She decided that Mr. Mortell should not be her at¬ 
torney. He might know all about Mandell but she would 
never go to him for information. Then to add to her 
disgust, another society item appeared. Mrs. Collins had 
evidently adopted the new treasure as her very own, and 
here he was, boldly essaying the lover’s role in an amateur 
play which the busy woman had arranged for some imagi¬ 
nary charity with herself rejuvenated and primped up to 
receive his moral caresses! 

Every day she was reminded of her desertion and this 
Mortell was rapidly getting on her nerves. There was 
altogether too much mystery about the whole affair. She 
could not go to him but she could go to Doctor Gordon. He 
must be a kind man. His name sounded kind and he was 
down there among humble people and would not be hard 
to talk to. She was becoming desperate. All night she 
would lie awake thinking of so many things. She could 
not eat. She needed a doctor. She would begin that way 
and if he weren’t a cross man, she could lead up to what 
she wanted to ask him. 

To be consistent, she started late in the day and rode 
in a street car. It was far and her courage was waning. 
She had not realized that she was quite a nervous wreck 
already. How she reached the doctor’s flat, she did not 

[7i] 




The Man With the Face 


know until she opened her eyes in a strange room with a 
nurse leaning over her and asking her if she felt better 
and telling her that she had fainted in the doctor’s recep¬ 
tion room, and this was his flat and she was in a nice clean 
bed in a clean room and was not to worry but to take this 
little vial of medicine and go to sleep; and just when she 
wanted to stay awake, a big, smiling, black whiskered man 
came in and patted her cheek and said, “Why she’s just a 
little girl,” and smiled again, and she wanted to talk to 
him but her tongue was too thick and she could not hold 
her eyes open any longer. 

She awoke early the next morning, greatly refreshed 
save for a slight dizziness which was the only disagreeable 
result of the hypnotic and soon wore away. She sat up 
in bed, raising herself a little at a time, for she supposed 
she must have been pretty sick, although she was surprised 
at her strength. One of the pillows fell to the floor with 
ever so little noise but the nurse was at her side in an 
instant. She was very severe at first and threatened to re¬ 
peat the hypnotic and in the end forgot that she was any¬ 
thing but another sociable woman. 

They chatted like school girls. Helen was delighted 
with her. The Doctor’s housekeeper was out of the city 
for a few days attending a family reunion and the nurse, 
just returned from duty, had volunteered to take her place. 

After breakfast the Doctor came in. He had been out 
all night but no one could tell it; he was so jolly. 

“How’s the little girl?” he asked, coming to her and 
patting her cheek again. His big hands were soft as velvet. 
Helen liked him on sight. 

“I feel just splendid, doctor,” she replied, looking 
very happy. 


[72] 




Helen Explores 


The Doctor ran his fingers over her wrist and listened 
to her heart and made her hold her hands up and spread 
her fingers. 

“Just a matter of tension,” he told the nurse; then 
turning to his patient, “You need rest, little lady. Why 
not remain with us a few days? It’s not a very inviting 
neighborhood but the flat is quiet.” 

Helen’s eyes sparkled. “I should love to do it,” she 
assented enthusiastically. “I feel so well here. Can you 
explain it, Doctor?” 

The big man smiled again. He was always smiling. 

“Indeed, I can,” he answered. “The reason is not 
far to seek. It’s the atmosphere.” 

Helen pretended to understand but she did not under¬ 
stand what he meant until her discovery later that “atmo¬ 
sphere” meant service to fellow men and women. 

She was studying the figures woven into the counter¬ 
pane. “You know why I came, do you not?” she asked 
not venturing to look up; and before he could reply, she 
blushed furiously and added, “it’s because I’m sick — and 
— want to ask you something.” 

She glanced out of the corners of her eyes. The big 
doctor was smiling but seemed to be troubled too. 

“You must rest, little lady, all day. We can talk a 
great deal and you may ask me a great many questions when 
you are stronger, but you may ask me one now — the one 
you want to ask the most.” 

“I wanted to ask what has become of Mr. Mandell 
and who this Mr. Mortell is,” she faltered. 

The big doctor was nervous himself. 

“I have a letter from Mandell which offers no ex- 

173 ] 



The Man With the Face 


planation as to his future intentions. You may see it. 
Perhaps that would be best.” 

Helen took a deep breath. 

“Don’t you know either, doctor?” 

The doctor looked out of the window. 

“I don’t believe he wants us to know, little lady,” he 
answered quietly. “He has his own way of doing things, 
but you may see the letter.” 

She shook her head. 

“I don’t think it is necessary. I have a letter too 
but it does not tell where he is going or what he will do 
or who this Mr. Mortell is. But I must try to forget 
him, is it not so?” 

A big hand stroked her burning cheek. 

“Your best days are before you, dear little girl,” he 
said mysteriously. “Some day, you will be the happiest 
woman in Chicago.” 

That afternoon, an accident in a factory near by 
called the physician and nurse away and Helen broke her 
pledge in less than ten minutes. She dressed in nervous 
haste and tried her strength by a turn about the flat. She 
felt like a new woman. 

She explored every room — there were seven or eight 
of them. It was a long flat extending to the alley with an 
alley door and window in the last room. She looked out 
of the window. A narrow passage led to the next build¬ 
ing. She was full of curiosity. In another minute, she 
was across the enclosed passageway facing another door. 
Timidly, she turned the knob and opened the door and an 
odor suggestive of a hospital came out. With a bold 
resolve, she looked in upon a dozen cots each occupied by 
a small figure that was buried in cotton and gauze. A 

[ 74 ] 



Helen Explores 


stern faced, professionally clad woman scowled at her and 
shut the door with a bang. 

She beat a hasty retreat to the flat. She concluded 
that this was not visiting day at the little hospital. Next, 
she went out the front way. The hospital was nowhere in 
sight but she discovered the reason when she entered a 
diminutive drug store, just large enough to hide the hos¬ 
pital. 

Out upon the street again, she learned the nature 
of the accident which had given her so much liberty. A 
freight elevator had fallen six or seven stories and injured 
several employees but none fatally. The foreman, one of 
the victims, was removed to his own residence and the 
nurse had gone with him. Doctor Gordon was busy with 
the other victims and would not return until late in the day. 

Partly because she was unfamiliar with the doctor’s 
pantry and largely to kill time, Helen slipped over to the 
nearest delicatessen and made a very original selection. She 
was setting the table when the doctor popped into the flat. 

“Where did you learn to cook?” he demanded in 
genuine admiration, forgetting his severe orders of the 
morning. 

“I wish I could afford to employ you,” he assured 
her, finding the feast more to his liking every minute. 

“Perhaps, I might work out my bill, if you are so 
easy to please,” Helen suggested, shyly. 

“Then be sure it will not be a small one. This is a 
real treat. Are you hungry, too?” 

“Pm starved,” she answered with a laugh. 

“This will do you good, Pm sure.” He arose with 
a belated realization of his duty. “I wish I could stay 
and talk but a doctor never knows what time is his own. 

[75] 



The Man With the Face 


I may not be back to-night but the matron of the little 
hospital will keep you company. My housekeeper will re¬ 
turn in the morning. Don’t work too hard.” 




CHAPTER IX. 


The Atmosphere 

I T WAS late when Helen awoke. She dressed hurriedly 
and rushed into the dining room. There was a fine 
display of flowers and fruit on the table and a plate 
laid for her with a note from the matron telling her she 
would find bacon and eggs in the warming oven and coffee 
in the percolator. Doctor Gordon had gone on his rounds 
and was very glad she had slept well. 

She had just finished breakfast when the telephone 
rang. It was a call for the doctor — very urgent. If 
Doctor Gordon could not come would she please send some 
other good doctor? It was the voice of a girl, much 
frightened, and the patient was her mother. 

While Helen was engaged with the telephone direc¬ 
tory, looking for a doctor who was not too far away, the 
bell clanged again and she was informed that if the doctor 
could not come they would wait. 

“No — no,” Helen protested, “I’ll find another 
doctor in just a minute. I’m looking for one now.” 

“Mother is getting better. She doesn’t want any 
other doctor. She’ll wait for Doctor Gordon.” 

“But the doctor may be gone all day.” 

“Mother says to tell him to call in the morning, then.” 
“Must be a funny case,” Helen soliloquized. “I 
wonder if it would be proper for me to call upon her? 
I don’t want her to die without medical attention.” 


[77] 


The Man With the Face 


Down a dingy little side street, stood a little hut as 
dark and dirty as its surroundings. Penciled over the door, 
was the number, 1490; and Helen wondered if it had 
reference to the date of its construction. 

At her knock a squeaky voice bade her enter. The 
habitation was divided into two rooms. Fresh air was as 
scarce as the furniture. Upon a rickety old chair, sat an 
elderly man with long snow white beard and hair. His 
clothing was made up of so many patches that it suggested 
an old time county fair crazy quilt. Economy characterized 
his posture. His knees and shoulders nearly touched. 

He hobbled to his feet and made a brave effort to 
greet his guest with due formality. 

“I’m from Doctor Gordon,” Helen proudly an¬ 
nounced. 

Immediately there came a moan and a shriek from the 
next room; and rushing in, Helen beheld the invalid throw¬ 
ing her big fat arms about, wildly rolling her eyes, puffing 
out her fat red cheeks and jerking her enormous body so 
violently that she looked like a huge animated shaking 
jello. The daughter, a puny, pale, undersized girl wrung 
her hands in terror and the convulsions increased. 

“The doctor,” the big woman gasped, “where is he?” 

“Why,” Helen stammered, “I thought you said you 
could wait, but I didn’t know but that I might do some¬ 
thing for you.” 

The big invalid quieted instantly and fixed a hard 
eye upon her visitor. “Are you a trained nurse?” she 
demanded. 

“No, I’m — I’m — just visiting Doctor Gordon.” 

“And don’t know nothing about sickness?” with a 


sneer. 


[78] 



The Atmosphere 


“Not very much,” Helen meekly answered. 

“Come out of curiosity, I suppose?” 

The old gentleman tried to intercede and met with an 
emphatic rebuff. “I’ve been a great sufferer for thirty 
years,” the invalid roared, turning sharply upon her aged 
helpmate, “and I’ve been kicked from pillar to post and 
played ball with; and last night, when I had them awful 
pains in my chest, that man there,” now she turned en- 
treatingly to Helen, “told me it wa’nt nothing but hys- 
sterics.” 

It was useless for the old man to protest. He was 
outvoted two to one. 

“But you look pretty well, now?” Helen began en¬ 
couragingly. 

“Pretty well, you say?” the big sufferer shrieked. 
“You have the gall to stand here in my own house and tell 
me I look pretty well — you who don’t know nothing about 
sickness and only come out of curiosity! Get out of here, 
you — you — unfeeling bold thing, you. Get out, she 
thundered; and Helen, thoroughly humiliated and fright¬ 
ened, fled in confusion and didn’t stop running until a safe 
distance separated her from the bellowing invalid. 

“My, but she’s a terror,” Helen mused, pausing to 
catch her breath. “I wish Red Parker could hear her yell. 
He’d never dare cheer lead again. She is certainly mighty 
strong above the diaphragm. Wonder if she is as sick 
as she thinks she is? I pity that defenceless old man. 
I must find some way to help him. I suppose I m a regular 
savage but I cannot get sentimental over the great sufferer 
at all,” and she laughed in spite of herself. 

She walked on with no particular destination in view. 
She was delighted with her freedom. She was beginning 

[79] 





The Man With the Face 


to have a good time after all. She passed cute little ragged 
and dirty children with such bright black eyes and shining 
hair and perfect white teeth. They spoke a strange lan¬ 
guage but knew how to thank her for money and trinkets 
which she bought for them. 

Near a busy transfer corner, she ran into a crowd. 
Some one had been injured, an old man, who had fallen 
from a street car; it started just as he was climbing on, 
one of the bystanders told her. They are always in a 
hurry. Representatives of the Company were arguing 
with the victim. She heard him emphatically refuse to be 
sent to their hospital. 

“I know what I’ve got. My arm is broken,” the old 
man insisted, “and I don’t need any hospital and ain’t 
going to any. There’s a good doctor near here — Doctor 
Gordon. I’m going to him. Now you fellows get out of 
my way, d’ye hear?” 

A policeman began to disperse the crowd and Helen 
edged in behind him. The old man was dressed as a laborer 
with long snow white beard and hair. He was holding 
the broken wrist in his right hand. A dinner pail stood 
at his feet. The snow white beard and the dinner pail 
nearly broke Helen’s heart. 

“I am going to Doctor Gordon’s myself,” she an¬ 
nounced picking up the dinner pail. “Wait until I can 
summon a taxicab.” 

“No, no, Miss, thanking you ever so much. It’s only 
a few steps and I can walk it easily;” but he overestimated 
his own strength or underestimated his injury for he began 
to reel and would have fallen had not the policeman caught 
him. 

Helen tugged at the big policeman’s coat sleeve. “I’ll 
[80] 



The Atmosphere 


take care of him,” she insisted. “I want to do something 
for others.” 

The big policeman’s gruff face softened with the kind¬ 
liest smile. “That you shall, little lady. I’ll take him into 
the store and you call your taxi. Tell Doctor Gordon hello 
for me. Tell him, Officer O’Brien sends regards. The 
old gentleman is in good hands, I’m sure.” 

The setting of the fracture did not prove to be as 
formidable an operation as Helen had anticipated, and the 
old man was quite comfortable after the splints were in 
place. Helen insisted upon going home with him. 

“By all means,” Doctor Gordon agreed. “I want 
you to get the atmosphere.” 

“I’m getting it,” she replied, “and it’s doing me good.” 

The old gentleman was a perfect dear. He was very 
appreciative and protested that he was being treated al¬ 
together too well. “You see, I was late; had some work 
to do at the house, last night; stayed up rather late; and the 
old clock stopped and I overslept.” 

“What is your work?” Helen asked. 

“Gatekeeper at the Forty-first Street Steel Mills. I’ve 
been there ever since the boy got hurt,” and, he related 
how his boy, the support of his wife and himself, had 
fallen down an elevator shaft and sustained a fracture of 
the lower spine. The vital centres had escaped. He had 
perfect control of his arms and body but would never be 
able to walk again. 

There were other details. At one time, he had been 
quite prosperous — a business man in a little village — 
until a good honest friend lost his own fortune, and his 
name was on some of the friend’s notes. 

They got out before a neat little cottage and a sweet 

[81] 



The Man With the Face 


faced, sunny old lady kissed her man and hugged Helen 
at the same instant, for Hiram was as sprightly as a youth 
and boasted that he felt not the slightest twinge of pain 
so long as anyone was talking to him. They took Helen 
in to meet the boy — a young man of twenty-four who 
lay on a cot with a pencil and pad of paper in his hand. 
He was just the son Helen expected. 

“Wouldn’t a chair be much more convenient?” she 
asked, rather hesitatingly. 

“We’re going to have one just as soon as possible,” 
the mother agreed. 

“I’ll attend to that,” Helen announced quite abstractedly, 
for her eyes were fastened upon a score of sketches that 
were pinned to the wall. 

“Son’s quite a drawer,” the mother explained after 
due thanks for the promised chair; and despite the protests 
of the modest artist, she brought out several other sketches. 
Although no artist herself, Helen was positive at first 
glance that the crippled boy possessed unusual talent. 

“Will you sell them?” she asked. 

The artist blushed at the idea. “I shall be happy to 
give them to you — all you want. They aren’t worth any¬ 
thing I am sure.” 

“Let me see, here are a dozen,” Helen said, making a 
selection of children’s studies. “They are splendid. I will 
give you five dollars each to hold the bargain. I don’t know 
their real value. I shall find out and send you the balance.” 

“What?” the artist cried in astonishment. 

“Who ever heard of such a thing?” the old lady asked. 

“You’re fooling,” Hiram hinted, catching some of her 
seriousness. 

Helen deliberately counted the money. “I know they 
[82] 



The Atmosphere 


are worth much more, but as I said, the balance will be 
yours.” 

Then Helen was compelled to stay for lunch and they 
would not listen to her running out for “a few little things;” 
and she agreed that it was not necessary when “mother” 
proudly escorted her through the pantry to inspect the 
wonderful collection of preserves stored there. 

“Mother” studied the jars critically. “I believe I 
shall try the raspberries,” she finally decided. 

Hiram chuckled. “Gosh, mother, is that in honor of 
the company or my broken arm?” he teasingly inquired. 

“Now, Hiram, do be quiet. He is always trying to 
show off before company,” she explained to Helen. 

The lunch was another “dear” to Helen from the 
moment the two white heads bowed in prayer until she 
prevailed upon them to let her bake the pancakes. They 
were too happy for words to learn that their stylish visitor 
could bake pancakes and liked to do it and liked to eat 
them. Helen was thoroughly at home. She visited with 
them, learned more of their history, and decided that this 
was the finest experience of her life. 

“I shall send that chair in the morning,” she told 
the artist, “and I intend to submit your sketches to a friend 
who is a real judge of such work. You are very gifted 
and I am sure something will come of it.” 

They protested in vain and made her promise to 
come back anyway, and she was only too happy for the 
privilege. 

Doctor Gordon enjoyed Helen’s account of her en¬ 
counter with the “great sufferer.” “That woman is a type 
— one of the large class of self appointed martyrs to ill 
health. Some people are proud of affliction and would be 

[83] 



The Man With the Face 


wretched if they thought anyone else thought they had a 
normal appendix or a healthy stomach. Once, that poor 
old fellow owned a nice little farm, but his young bride 
lost her health just the minute her folks rebuked her for 
marrying a man who was so many years her senior.” 

“I want to help the poor old man,” Helen said, “and 
the girl needs a dress — and I suppose the — ‘great suf¬ 
ferer’ (she used the term with a sense of guilt but the 
doctor only smiled) deserves some pity?” 

“Pity?” the doctor echoed, “well rather. She has to 
have it. She lives upon it and as you have seen has not 
lost much weight; but strictly speaking, that woman de¬ 
serves our warmest congratulations, for she has realized 
her great ambition.” 

“Which is?” 

“To be a ‘great sufferer.’ ” 

“It must be a sad household,” Helen ventured. 

The doctor shook his head. “How superficial are our 
judgments. The world wastes too much sympathy. That 
woman is happy for she gets what she wants and plenty 
of it — eternal pity. Her deluded old helpmate is as 
proud of her as ever and glories in his unconscious martyr¬ 
dom. The girl gives so much from her great store of 
affection that it grows and grows until she herself is satu¬ 
rated and helplessly happy. Really, I do not believe we 
should disturb them. I tried in vain to induce her to 
undertake some form of drugless healing, for no doctor 
has ever been able to find any organic disease in her, but 
at last I was compelled to surrender. I am giving her my 
time without charge and every variety and color of place¬ 
bos I can discover.” 

Helen shook her head admiringly. “Your philosophy 
[84] 




The Atmosphere 


is wonderful. You can extract honey from the bitterest 
flower.” 

“Not so wonderful as that, little Missie. That is 
more than the bee can do; but the bee doesn’t have to do 
it because there is something sweet in every flower and in 
every experience in life and in every one, but you won’t 
find it unless you look for it always. The bee knows where 
to look.” 

“You have the poetical mind, doctor. Let me see 
some of your verses.” 

The doctor laughingly denied any such indulgence. 
Helen was anxious to speak of the hospital, and her abrupt 
announcement nearly bowled the big man over. 

“I popped into the little hospital the other morning 
and a nurse scowled at me and shut the door in my face.” 

“The deuce, you did. Where did you learn about it?” 

“Mr. Mandell wrote me. Is it in need of funds?” 

“It’s a private affair,” he explained, with an effort 
to appear unconcerned. '“As you might imagine, Mr. 
Mandell has imposed some peculiar restrictions upon it. 
No visitor excepting relatives of the patients are welcomed. 
We never receive big or interesting cases anyway. It is 
easily self supporting.” 

Helen realized that he did not enjoy that turn to their 
conversation; so she proudly displayed her sketches and 
mentioned her plans for the crippled artist. 

Doctor Gordon was delighted. “That’s fine. Would 
you like to do that kind of work down here?” he asked. 

“I should love it.” 

“This is a big field. No organized charity can cover 
it. You can come here as a free lance, and I’ll keep you 
posted.” 


[85] 



The Man With the Face 


Helen was enthusiastic. “I have found your atmo¬ 
sphere, doctor, and it is wonderful. It is making me 
strong. To-morrow, I shall see the editor. Before I go, 
I want to leave a little money with you for the old man, 
with the suffering helpmate. He needs a new suit and the 
daughter must have a new dress or two; and now, just one 
more question. How do you get along here — with money, 
I mean?” 

The doctor laughed good naturedly; his interrogator 
was so serious. “Why, first rate, little Missie. Not all 
I do is charity. This is out of the high rent district, too. 
Now that reminds me—” He settled down into a com¬ 
fortable posture and invited his guest to take a chair again. 

“It’s going to be a long story. I intended to reserve 
it for your next visit, but you look so rosy and enthusiastic 
that I don’t believe it is necessary to wait. I lost a few 
dollars recently. I believe there is a chance to recover it; 
but whether I do recover it or not, I shall feel proud of the 
investment. Excuse me jyst a minute.” 

He fumbled through his disordered desk and found 
a dirty, crumpled letter. “Read it, please,” he told her. 

“Dear Sur,” it began illegibly, “that there medicul 
student haint guilty, the guy that done the work is a swell 
on the nort side and you know him. He’s got the dope on 
me and I dasent say nothing, but i would if i dared, you’ve 
kept sum big crooks out of jail here’s a chanst fur you to 
keep a guy out who haint no crook, he haint got no money 
and haint no friend of mine don’t know I’m on earth but he 
needs the best to beat that swell who done the dirty work 
and if you are any kind of a man and as rich as they say you 
can afford to do this fur nothing, at any rate here is a few 

[86] 





The Atmosphere 


dollars to start if you clear that young feller it will help 
even up for the real crooks you have cleared.” 

Helen looked up from the letter, mystified. “What 
does it mean?” 

Doctor Gordon replaced the letter in his desk. “It 
was written to Mandell. He kept the envelope. Do you 
recall the incident?” 

Helen thought for a minute. “I do not usually go 
very deep into criminal news. I must have overlooked 
this affair. Please tell me all about it.” 

“Mandell was greatly affected by this strange letter. 
There were two fifty dollar bills enclosed. I believe he 
has them yet. Certainly, he entered into the affair with 
all his energy. It was through him that I met the ‘medical 
student.’ I shared Mandell’s confidence in the young man’s 
innocence. I liked him and determined to do something 
for him soon as we could clear him of this bad business, 
but he ran away before we got decently started.” 

“My — that looks bad, his running away.” 

The doctor seemed to lose patience for just a moment. 
“Yes, it does to some, but not to me or to Mandell. How¬ 
ever, I am making a wretched jumble of the story. I’ll 
try to be explicit. 

“During his senior year, which was about two years 
ago, this student elected an extra course in operative sur¬ 
gery which was given in the evening. One night, being 
suddenly indisposed, he was excused by the demonstrator, 
but it was nearly ten o’clock before he felt well enough 
to leave the college. There is a dark and somewhat danger¬ 
ous alley that shortened the distance to his room and 
naturally he selected this route. It was darker than usual; 

[87] 



The Man With the Face 


and once or twice, he thought he heard a muffled scream; 
but was not sure and did not feel able to investigate. So, 
he hurried on and ran into a patrol wagon full of policemen 
at the other end. 

“They were just alighting, and asked him if he had 
heard any outcry or noise or had met anyone in the alley. 
He told them he was quite sure he had heard a moan some¬ 
where but had met no one. They asked a few personal 
questions and he explained that he was a medical student 
and was going to his room, selecting the shortest cut on 
account of his illness. 

“They commanded him to remain with them as his 
services might be needed and found a young woman more 
dead than alive, with a half dozen knife wounds in her 
body. They could not understand how he had missed her. 
He helped with first aid and advised the policemen to hurry 
the victim to the nearest hospital. He was invited to ac¬ 
company them. He objected that he was not well and 
could be of no more service. Thereupon, he was bluntly 
informed that his presence in the alley and his further 
conduct were suspicious; and there was no alternative but 
to arrest him. 

“Well, the poor fellow was indicted. The police made 
a strong case against him and one of our yellow journals 
went after him hard. The boy never had a bad habit and 
the demonstrator testified that he was ill; but the police 
were positive he was under the influence of some drug 
instead, and you know, perhaps, how the drug crusade has 
affected the public. Meanwhile the young woman hovered 
between life and death, but Mandell got busy and managed 
to secure the boy’s release upon bail. The Dean of the 
college scheduled ten thousand dollars and I put in my mite. 

[ 88 ] 



The Atmosphere 


“Then, the young woman died.” 

“Died?” Helen repeated with a shudder. 

“Yes, so it appeared — to the police.” 

“To the police? I don’t understand.” 

“Let me explain, and that is another story. As I sai l, 
we managed to get the boy out on bail; and, in two days, 
he ran away — the day she died.” 

“Ran away,” Helen exclaimed in disapproval, “that 
looks bad. He must be guilty.” 

The doctor did not reply at once. “I’ll admit that it 
does look bad to one who has never had to feel the sting 
of a venomous Yellow Journal. Why, this paper featured 
the case with half page signed articles by special writers. 
Naturally, the poor fellow fed upon the whole supply, and 
the fact that he was so terribly frightened is, in my mind, 
evidence of his innocence and of his inexperience. There 
were other circumstances. He was poor and had a mother 
depending upon him for support. He was trying to do that 
and work his way through college at the same time. He 
was becoming a wreck from the unequal struggle even 
before this unfortunate occurrence. It’s no wonder he lost 
courage. 

“Mandell worked like a beaver. I am sure he had 
his idea of the guilty man, ‘this swell North Side guy’ of 
the anonymous letter. Perhaps you may have some suspi- 
cion. 

“There is another side to this affair that is still a 
secret to most people. We learned that a certain interne 
in the hospital was disciplined for refusing to write a 
death certificate for the supposedly murdered woman. 
This interne was a graduate of our school — I do a little 
dispensary work in the college, myself; that is the reason 

[89] 



The Man With the Face 


I call it our school — he was an honor man, I should add; 
and the Dean took up the matter of his suspension; and 
the authorities were mighty glad to call quits.” 

Helen shook her head in confusion. 

“Still another story. It promised to raise a scandal 
but didn’t because the affair was hushed. At that time, 
the hospital was in a rather chaotic condition due to too 
much political interference and the selection of a warden 
who knew more about managing a political campaign than 
a hospital. Now, this supposedly murdered woman dis¬ 
appeared from the hospital, one night. How she made her 
escape or was spirited away, has never been discovered. 
She has never been seen since then, dead or alive. The 
warden was frantic and decided to save his own scalp by 
reporting her death, substituting one of the many unidenti¬ 
fied bodies there for hers. The interne in charge of that 
ward refused to be a party to the deception and was dis¬ 
charged. Another interne was persuaded to write the 
death certificate. Mandell was disposed to go after the 
warden but compromised when our interne was restored to 
good standing, because the woman disappeared the very 
night our boy ran away.” 

“But, there can’t be any connection?” Helen asked, 
half convinced there was. 

“I am sure there was none, but the public might think 
differently. I do not believe she is dead. The warden 
chooses to maintain that she is; that our boy is a second 
Holmes*, a wanton degenerate, who cannot be satisfied 
with mere murder, a monster whose work would not be 
complete without mutilation of his victim’s dead body. You 
can imagine what this yellow journal would make of such an 
hypothesis. We were afraid and made peace. 


*A notorious Chicago homicide. 


[90] 




The Atmosphere 


“We believe this woman is living and was helped to 
escape or was spirited away by interested parties. Mandell 
had a theory of his own along this line. It is too bad he 
had to leave.” 

“Perhaps, these interested parties drove him away,” 
she suggested with a more personal fear. 

The doctor’s manner was very confusing. A better 
observer than Helen might have construed it as willfully so. 

“Did Mandell have any enemies?” he quietly asked. 

“I think Standing was no friend.” 

The doctor did not speak for a few minutes. He was 
very careful of his words. “I don’t imagine the interested 
party or parties had any knowledge of Mandell’s activity. 
He was very quiet about it, but we miss him very much. 
He was interested and had money—” 

“I have money too, doctor.” 

“But you are not interested, are you?” 

“I am interested in furthering any wish of Mr. Man¬ 
dell. It’s my duty. If he believed this student innocent, 
I shall believe him innocent; and I will do what I can for his 
mother’s sake.” 

Doctor Gordon looked out of the window. For a big 
man, he was strangely timid. “I don’t know his successor 
very well, though I understand he is a very wonderful 
lawyer.” 

“But I do, doctor, or I mean that I can know him.” 

“And the records are in his office. We may be sure 
Mandell has discussed the case with him.” 

“Then, I’ll see him at once. I’ll be glad to finance 
the work.” 

Doctor Gordon’s eyes twinkled. A better observer 
than Helen might have imagined he wanted her to meet 

[9i] 




The Man With the Face 


the new attorney. “That’s splendid of you, little lady,” 
he commended. “You are going to be very busy. Do not 
overtax your strength.” 

Helen drew herself erect. “I’m stronger than you 
think, doctor. I feel equal to anything. Your atmosphere 
is a marvelous thing. But the young man, the student, 
doctor?” 

The doctor was strangely hopeful. “If we can clear 
him, there will be a way of reaching him, I am sure.” 

Helen was telling herself all the way home: “I can 
see Mr. Mortell about this affair, and maybe, learn some¬ 
thing about poor Ralph Mandell. Funny about the names 
— so much alike.” 


[ 92 ] 



CHAPTER X. 


Mr. Mortell Makes Many Friends and 
One Enemy 

A CQUAINTANCES regarded Mr. Mortell as a man 
of destiny, but Mr. Mortell knew better. He gave 
full credit to his predecessor. “The start is every¬ 
thing,” he declared. “He left me a fine business and told 
me what to do with it.” 

That he had succeeded to Mandell’s practice in every 
sense of the word was very evident. In an incredibly 
short time he found it necessary to employ assistants. Man- 
dell’s ability was unquestioned but his business, from the 
nature of the man, was bound to be a one man business. 
Clients came to Mortell who were not members of a corpo¬ 
ration or indicted for crime. He was so likeable and so 
masterful that friends insisted upon bringing him any sort 
of legal business. So he was rapidly building a substantial 
general practice, and his confreres predicted that in a few 
years he would be the head of the most solid firm in the 
city. 

Socially he owed as much to his eccentric predecessor. 
Bellamy boosted him upon every possible occasion, and 
Mrs. Collins espoused him with characteristic energy. 
There was a time, but that was before her marriage, when 
a now forgotten rumor had it that she began as governess 
to Mr. Collins’ children. Nowadays, no one saw much 

[93] 


The Man With the Face 


of Mr. Collins’ children, a boy and a girl, a very splendid 
boy and a sweet girl; but the boy was attending some 
preparatory school in the East and the girl, some finishing 
school, from which she was booked for Vassar. 

Mr. Collins was generally known as “the husband of 
Mrs. Collins.” During the first few years of their wedded 
life, he had been of some consequence. He was famous for 
two things, his ancient family and a vast unproductive 
estate in Massachusetts which had been in continuous 
possession of the Collins lineage for two hundred and fifty 
years. Here the family resided during the children’s vaca¬ 
tion. Mr. Collins was by nature a very pompous little 
man and upon one or two occasions had alluded to their 
servants as slaves. Aside from his rather extravagant 
luxury of a boasted landed estate, the little man was a 
perfect genius for making money. Accordingly Mrs. Col¬ 
lins promptly decided to permit him to continue to make 
money but restricted his liberties in every other direction. 
For this achievement, friends were grateful. 

Mrs. Collins was a rather big framed woman of the 
middle aged variety with a penchant for all the various 
artifices that help such a woman preserve a youthful ap¬ 
pearance. She was intellectual and aggressive. She would 
have succeeded in nearly any undertaking. She selected 
society as the proper outlet for her genius. She loved to 
exploit the new and her nature demanded ceaseless activity. 
She made a mistake with Standing; but when Mortell ap¬ 
peared, she realized a new star had arisen in the social 
firmament, and resolved to be the first to discover it. 
Mortell soon became a fashion. 

Then came the charity play which Mrs. Collins was 
directing for the benefit of St. Jarlach’s Mission. There 

[94] 



Mr. Mortell Makes Many Friends and One Enemy 


was one scene which required particular and frequent re¬ 
hearsal. She and Mortell were the only actors in it. 

One morning Mortell ran in on his way to his office. 
It was early but Mrs. Collins would be right down, the 
maid informed him. He was standing by the fireplace, 
looking down upon the few smouldering coals, there for 
appearance rather than for warmth, too deeply absorbed 
to notice the approach of his hostess until her hand touched 
his cheek. 

“Why, my dear boy, your cheek is hot as fire. Are 
you ill?” she exclaimed in alarm. 

He turned upon her, almost fiercely. “What do you 
know about Standing?” he demanded, bluntly ignoring her 
question. 

Her astonishment was real. “I don’t understand you 
at all. Why do you ask such a question?” 

“Has he said anything about me?” 

Her eyes opened in injured protest. “Do you imagine 
he would dare do such a thing in my hearing?” 

He handed her a letter. “Is that his handwriting?” 
he peremptorily demanded. 

She examined the letter carefully. “I would dislike 
to pronounce on that without comparing it. Shall I read 
it?” 

“By all means.” 

She read aloud. 

“I know who you are. I know all about you. I am 
not so easy as some people on the North Side, and you 
had better mind your own business. This is final. 

One who knows you.” 


[95] 




The Man With the Face 


Mrs. Collins looked up from the letter with a ques¬ 
tioning smile. "It’s a great joke isn’t it and you are a 
great actor, for I know you do not take it seriously. ‘One 
who knows you.’ The idea! Who doesn’t know you? 
Fred Bellamy told us your history even before you came. 
Really, isn’t it quite a joke? And are you trying to show 
me how well you can act?” 

The angry cloud did not leave Mortell’s face. “It’s 
not a joke or at least is not intended to be one. I have 
absolute knowledge that Standing is back of it for this 
letter is a duplicate of one which I received only a few 
days ago. Look more carefully and see if you cannot 
recognize the handwriting.” 

“Wait a moment.” She went into another room and 
returned with a sheet of paper. It was a list of some sort 
that had been made by Standing some months earlier. 
There could be no mistake. The handwriting was identical. 

“This letter,” Mortell continued, “was found by me 
after last rehearsal in the corner of the room where Stand¬ 
ing sat as self appointed critic.” 

“What does it mean?” Mrs. Collins begged, backing 
slowly into a chair, with eyes half fearful and wholly 
hungry for the revelation, never leaving the attorney’s 
face. Mortell also took a seat and the tension in the room 
dropped with him. 

“Recently, I have received a few threatening letters 
all signed as this one is. I suspected Standing from the 
start and now, I know he is the real author; and has fur¬ 
nished a copy of each one to some confederate whose 
handwriting would be strange to me. He has better rea¬ 
sons for hating me than you may think and what I tell now 
is in confidence. My predecessor was interested in him. 

[96] 




Mr. Mortell Makes Many Friends and One Enemy 


You may recall there was a certain difficulty between these 
men and when Mandell was engaged in the pleasant task 
of beating him up he so far forgot himself as to warn 
Standing that he was investigating his personal history. 
Mandell discussed the affair with me and requested me to 
continue the work which he began. Standing may have sus¬ 
pected as much or may have learned in some way of my 
own activity; and has taken this method of attempting to 
frighten me. 

“Why does he resort to such a subterfuge? Simply 
because he is afraid of being exposed. It is a crude invita¬ 
tion to bargain with him. Should I boldly approach and 
offer to bargain, I have no doubt he would cheerfully admit 
the whole thing.” 

“I don’t know what he has to fear,” Mrs. Collins 
replied. “I don’t believe he is a criminal although he 
might be an adventurer, but you — why — you haven’t 
anything to fear, have you?” 

Mortell looked at his hostess and laughed heartily; 
her expression was so obvious. “Standing might think so 
or want to think so, but to show you how I feel about it, 
I am going to ask you a question. Do you happen to know 
the postal inspector?” 

Mrs. Collins was rapidly recovering her equilibrium. 
“He happens to be a second cousin of Mr. Collins’,” she 
replied with perfect composure. 

“Could you give me a letter to him?” 

“Gladly. Now?” 

“Please.” 

She opened a toy desk and wrote the letter of introduc¬ 
tion. “There, Young-Mr.-Get-What-You-Want, will that 
do?” 


[97] 



The Man With the Face 


Mortell smiled self consciously. “You flatter me al¬ 
ways, even by this perfect letter.” 

“Thanks, but I do not flatter you, dear boy. You are 
simply irrestible. Of course, you do not need to worry, 
not even if there were something to this attempt at black¬ 
mail. You have merely to deny or ignore it and every one 
of your friends would do the same. No one would think 
of asking you bothersome questions — for Standing, you 
see, had to write them. Somehow, I never can think of 
questions when you are near and others have the same feel¬ 
ing. You are a very magnetic man, my dear sir. I wouldn’t 
be so bold if I were not old enough to be your mother.” 

Mortell mumbled a faint demurrer and she raised her 
hand in warning. “Don’t spoil it now, dear man. You know 
very well I am old enough to be your mother. I would 
not attempt to deceive you. I might try to fool others — 
perhaps I do, but you,” she shook her head knowingly, 
“not you.” 

Mortell blushed and she hastened on. 

“I really believe, nevertheless, that you are a veritable 
tyro in love making. That is the only thing you seem to 
fear. That’s the reason for your role in our play. You 
need practice. Some day, Helen Verban will emerge from 
her retreat, and I want you to be ready for her.” 

Mortell gave a start. Mrs. Collins was quick to mark 
his discomfiture. 

“Ah — hah,” she ejaculated, “you couldn’t wait for 
me to introduce you. You know her, already?” 

Mortell affected a smile. “Guess again. I have not 
met her and I wonder why. We just naturally shall have 
to meet. There is a little matter of business that requires 


[98] 




Mr. Mortell Makes Many Friends and One Enemy 


“You seem to be disappointed.” 

“I am looking for business.” 

“And Helen?” 

Mortell lost interest immediately. It was a privilege 
of his to change subjects abruptly. “Now, please be care¬ 
ful about what I told you,” he warned. “Something is 
going to drop pretty soon and it will make a big splash. I 
don’t want any mud to hit you.” 

Mrs. Collins was all attention. “You refer to Stand¬ 
ing?” 

“Good guess. This fellow is an adventurer, and these 
letters confirm an original suspicion.” 

“You mean that he is a criminal?” 

Mortell smiled indulgently. “You may rest assured, 
dear lady, that our friend is doomed to disappointment. I 
do not believe that he is deputized by the Unseen Con¬ 
troller of Human Destinies to change the channel of life 
that has been laid out for me to follow; and I will fight 
him any way he comes; and I may not wait for him to 
come either, for I can silence him any moment I care to do 
it but he cannot silence me.” 

Mrs. Collins was fearful. “But he is a giant.” 

“Bah for the giant part. He is a coward. I would 
fear him only in the dark.” 

Mrs. Collins’ eyes were full of admiration. “I do not 
doubt your capabilities in any direction. I don’t believe 
anyone would fight you, whom you could look in the eye; 
but you will be careful, won’t you?” 

“Oh, yes, I’ll be careful and now,” going to the door, 
“you will remember this is confidential and whatever is to 
happen will be the better for waiting.” 

[99] 





The Man With the Face 


“Your word is my law, dear man,” she assured him. 
“Rehearsal to-night, at your house?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then good bye and be careful.” 

“Thank you.” 

She watched him walk rapidly down the Boulevard. 
“He is wrong,” she told herself, “Standing must have a 
certain courage to even think of threatening him.” 

She went back to a big soft rocker and tried to reason 
about all the strange things he had hinted at. She wondered 
why she had let him go with only a hint of what he might 
have told her, but that was always the way with him. He 
never did tell more than he wanted to, and could always 
go on mystifying people and no one dared ask him about 
it. She could make nothing of the whole affair, but she 
knew she would respect his confidence. No one violated 
Mr. Mortell’s confidence. 


[ioo] 





CHAPTER XI. 


There is Always a Way to Get Around 

HAPPY little lady now dwelled in the Ancient 



House of Verban. A chair went forthwith to the 


■*“ crippled artist, and she called upon the editor and 
submitted the sketches. He summoned the Art Editor and 
they examined the work with professional impartiality. 

“How much did you pay for them?” the Art Editor 
asked. 

“Sixty dollars,” Helen answered, uncertain which way 
their verdict might turn. 

“Sixty dollars?” he exclaimed. “We need you on our 
staff, Miss Verban. They are unusual — cheap at a thou¬ 
sand. Look,” he cried, regrouping them upon the wall 
with this title above them: “The Little World.” 

“Great,” his colleague applauded. 

He turned to Helen. His face was actually pale. 
“Send that man to me. It’s pure luck to get such a chance. 
I’ll help him make a fortune, and boost our magazine, too.” 

It was more than the little lady expected; but she 
faltered through the story of the wonderful cripple, and the 
editor promised to see him next day. 

“Don’t worry about him another minute,” he told her. 
“He does not need any help. So long as he can use his 
eyes and hands, he is assured of a generous income. Don’t 
you see we owe the boy a thousand dollars, already?” 

Helen waited a whole day and then rushed down to the 


[ioi] 


The Man With the Face 


little South Side cottage. The door was open before she 
touched the threshold, and the minute she set foot within, 
she knew the editor had been there and it was not a dream 
after all. 

The artist wheeled himself to her. “I can’t work 
to-day, dear lady. I simply cannot,” he repeated. “I am 
too excited. I have loads of work laid out but the editor 
forbade me to do anything for a whole week, so I have 
been riding around in this chair and having the time of 
my life. Some day, I will try to thank you for what you 
have done. The Editor tells me there is no doubt about 
my future. He says it is here now. I showed him all of 
my sketches and made one for him while he sat watching 
me, and he was wonderfully nice and flattered me until my 
ears roared. We are so upset that we don’t know what to 
do.” 

Hiram came in with a basket full of packages. “Why 
the little lady has her hat on yet, mother,” he protested. 

Helen removed her hat and laughed. “So that’s what 
you are up to,” examining the packages, “going to celebrate 
are you?” 

“Yes, and you were invited but I suppose you started 
before the letter reached you.” 

“Now, dear, you sit right down where you are,” 
Mother insisted, pushing Helen into a chair. “You are the 
oflicial guest of the whole family. I’m not educated and 
can’t make a fine speech, so I am not going to try, but if 
an old woman’s prayers can be felt, your dear little ears 
will ring every night as long as I live. 

“This editor seems to think we are going to have 
an easy time; and, would you believe it, he made our boy 
take an awful big check and has guaranteed him a regular 

[102] 




There Is Always a Way to Get Around 


salary as member of the staff on his magazine. Isn’t it 
strange that none of us ever dreamed such a thing could 
be done?” 

“There will always be a reward for genuine talent,” 
Helen answered, “and your son has that. There must be 
a great deal of talent lost to the world just through lack 
of the opportunity to show it.” 

“It seems so strange to me,” the sweet little mother 
replied in her wonderful, soft voice, “that my poor boy is 
so much more valuable to the world in his helpless condi¬ 
tion. If he had not fallen down that shaft, he would be 
working yet on a mechanic’s wage; and we would be scold¬ 
ing him for wasting his evenings on useless drawings instead 
of reading a good book or going to a moving picture show. 
I can’t get over it at all, thinking how ignorant Hiram and 
I must be.” 

“Pshaw, mother,” the artist said, “you make too much 
of my helplessness. I’m not so bad off. See how I’ve been 
tearing around the house to-day. To-morrow, I am going 
on the street. I don’t care about this walking business. 
There’s always a way to get around without legs. I might 
just as well tell you now as later, but I was saving it for a 
surprise, I’ve bought an automobile.” 

“Bought an automobile?” his mother repeated in per¬ 
fect amazement. “Of all things: why, automobiles cost a 
lot of money.” 

“That’s a fact, but the editor says I am to have a fine 
room of my own in the building and there is no need of 
being shut up here or anywhere else, and I can get around 
as well as the next man, for every one who amounts to any¬ 
thing owns an automobile and don’t use his legs, especially 
in a big city like Chicago. 




The Man With the Face 


“He is going to lend me the money and of course it’s 
to be an electric. He says it can be fixed so I can run it 
just as well as Edison, and Pop and you can run it and all 
of us have the use of it. He says I can afford it just as 
much as he can, and he owns one. So it’s done and it is 
coming to-morrow. He wants me to practice with it this 
week. That’s the reason for my layoff. A demonstrator 
will be with me until I feel sure of myself. So you see, 
mother, it’s all the way you look at things.” 

“God is good, darling boy,” she murmured, covering 
her eyes. “My boy — my wonderful boy!” 

“Everything is always right,” Hiram declared. “If 
I hadn’t broken my arm, this little lady wouldn’t have done 
all these wonderful things for us; for she wouldn’t have 
known us.” 

He turned to his wife, purposely ignoring her efforts 
to master her emotion. “Now, if something could happen 
to you, Mother, this little miracle worker might prove that 
I’m a great inventor and had discovered perpetual motion.” 

Mother tried to appear scandalized but had to laugh 
in spite of herself. “Did you ever see such a man?” she 
asked Helen. 

Hiram chuckled self consciously. “Guess I’ve got a 
right to feel proud of this arm. What do you suppose 
would have happened if I had broken a leg?” 

“Now Hiram, I want you to stop that foolishness. 
It is sinful to joke about such things.” 

“I feel too good to be serious, Mother. Come, can’t 
you be just a little more pleasant, yourself?” 

Everyone laughed even though Mother threatened to 
box Hiram’s ears. 

Helen was profoundly impressed by the editor’s gene- 
[104] 



There Is Always a Way to Get Around 


rosity; and it made her uncomfortably self conscious, when 
she compared the new “atmosphere” as Doctor Gordon so 
aptly expressed it with the old atmosphere of her own 
neighborhood, and contrasted the life of this editor, a plain 
man of business, as he had hitherto appeared to her, with 
the purposeless careers of the young men of her own set — 
Standing, for instance. But she was enjoying the occasion. 
They made so much of her and the tiny, grey haired Mother 
adopted her as her own. They kept her all day and then 
led her into a bright little room full of the fragrance of 
clean linens — her own room, they called it — and all night 
fairies watched over her bed. 



CHAPTER XII. 


An Explanation for Everything 

M RS. COLLINS could not approve of Helen’s re¬ 
tirement and held it as her duty to see her regu¬ 
larly. She was with her the day after Helen’s 
wonderful visit to the South Side. 

“I envy you, dear girl. You are so free. Some day, 
you shall take me with you.” 

“I firmly believe half of us never learn the real signi¬ 
ficance of life,” Helen replied, unconscious of her assump¬ 
tion of so much wisdom. “We never leave our own, fenced 
in, little set; but it’s the whole world that’s outside.” 

Mrs. Collins shook her head wonderingly. “What a 
thorough little philosopher you are. You make me feel 
dreadfully inconsequential.” 

Mrs. Collins was very earnest and Helen’s eyes were 
still in the clouds. “Some day, I will take you, Madge. 
I want you to meet a remarkable man, Doctor Gordon. 
But tell me, are you satisfied with yourself, are you truly 
happy?” 

The elder woman was startled. “That’s a large ques¬ 
tion, dear.” She was silent for many minutes. She did not 
smile. This bold question brought her nearer to a realiza¬ 
tion of her own limitations. Then she did a strange thing. 
Helen found herself nearly crushed in the strong woman’s 
arms. 

“You amazing child,” she crooned — there were tears 
[106] 


An Explanation for Everything 


in her eyes. “We must not spoil this,” she cried, slowly 
releasing her. “I must go now — to think of so many 
things. I’ll come back soon,” and before Helen realized 
her purpose, her visitor was gone. 

Helen sat still ever so long with her mind full of grave 
questions. Gradually she began to feel her own import¬ 
ance. She was a discoverer. There was something mystical 
about her new responsibilities. Then she thought of her 
impending interview with the attorney. She wanted to 
forget some things and he would recall them to her but the 
time to act had come. But her courage was not equal to 
the test — to-day. 

So it was only on the morning that Mortell called 
upon Mrs. Collins that she went to his office. He had 
not been there a half hour before a card was thrust through 
the door with Helen’s name on it. He held it out at arm’s 
length as though it were a thing to be feared. He knew it 
had to come, for that was his chief purpose — to meet her. 
And now she was here, separated from him by only a door, 
and while he sat there gathering his wits, he was thankful 
for that door. There were many things to discuss with her, 
business affairs purely, and a life insurance policy of Ralph 
Mandell’s. He pounced upon it greedily and pressed the 
bell. 

Helen’s first impression was that he was very hand¬ 
some and very nervous; and he, beyond awkwardly indi¬ 
cating a chair for his pretty client, saw nothing at first but 
that important life insurance policy. 

“I am very glad you called,” he mumbled with a cau¬ 
tious glance. “Indeed, I was about to ask you to come.” 

She was tantalizingly quiet. 

“I was wondering if you found any difficulty in man- 

[107] 



The Man With the Face 


aging your affairs,” he continued, hiding behind the paper. 

She didn’t appear to hear him and made no response. 

“Of course, Mr. Mandell acquainted me with the de¬ 
tails, and I know he made things easy for you. In fact, 
you wouldn’t have need for an attorney’s services unless 
you contemplated making some complicated investment, 
and — Oh, yes, this policy has two years to run, and has 
been —” 

He was wondering why she didn’t speak; and when 
he finally mustered up the courage to look at her again, 
he was more uncomfortable than ever. She was making 
a losing fight. Her lips would not stay still and big tears 
were running down her cheeks. 

Mortell was helpless. “What have I done? what have 
I said? I’ll step out a minute.” 

She shook her head. “No, don’t do that. It’s not 
you.” She dried her eyes and tried to smile. “I have be¬ 
haved terribly. I was thinking—” and she broke down 
again. 

Mortell knew he ought to say something but he 
couldn’t; and when she looked at him again he was so be¬ 
wildered that she had to smile. 

“What were you thinking of?” he finally asked. 

“I was thinking of Mr. Mandell and of — you. He 
has gone, no one knows where and no one cares, and you 
are here, doing all he ever did, better known, and better 
liked.” 

Mortell flushed self consciously. “I claim nothing 
for myself. I try only to continue his work as he showed 
it to me.” 

Helen liked this speech. “No, no, Mr. Mortell,” she 
protested, “that is unjust to you. I spoke without thought. 

[108] 



An Explanation for Everything 


Forgive me. You seem strangely familiar to me, else I 
should not have been so free. I am sure you deserve your 
success.” 

Mortell blushed furiously, and Helen, becoming sud¬ 
denly so much older and more experienced, beheld in him 
only the struggling young lawyer. If it were his purpose 
to get what poor Mandell could not have, he was uncon¬ 
sciously making a splendid beginning. 

“And I am glad you have so many friends,” she added, 
“because that’s the way you get your business, is it not?” 

“Ye —es,” he drawled, not entirely at ease. 

“Some people make friends just naturally,” she ex¬ 
plained. “Now here I am — why, I had determined that 
I wouldn’t like you at all.” 

She bit her lips, suddenly conscious of her embarrassing 
admission. Mortell’s good angel must have told him what 
to say. 

“I owe everything to my predecessor,” he quietly de¬ 
clared, hiding his traitorous eyes behind a convenient docu¬ 
ment. 

“Do you know him very well?” she asked, too in¬ 
terested to catch his purpose. 

“As well as anyone could know him.” 

“I have thought of this strange case until I cannot 
make anything of it.” 

Mortell spoke only louder than a whisper. “It is 
better not to try. I am sure Mandell does not want us to 
make him a problem, and seeks only to be forgotten.” 

She turned upon him sharply. “That’s what Doctor 
Gordon said. Does everyone believe that?” 

“They must.” 

“He sent you here.” 


[109] 




The Man With the Face 


“He hoped I could drop in without making much noise. 
He sent me to do certain things,” Mortell explained. 

“And you had met Mr. Bellamy before?” 

“Oh yes, I knew him well.” 

“And knew all about me?” 

Mortell laughed. “Not all, just what he told me — 
just enough to make me want to know more.” 

Helen shook her head helplessly. “It is very mysteri¬ 
ous, even though you and Doctor Gordon pretend that 
it is not. You say he wants only to be let alone. Who 
will let him alone? It’s against human nature to neglect 
a mystery. Now there is your long visit with him in 
New Orleans and this letter to me in his own handwriting, 
I’m positive, and yet not a single policeman or detective 
or anyone else has caught a glimpse of him since he left 
Chicago. He must have some very resourceful confed¬ 
erates.” 

Mortell looked at her quite his usual confident self 
again. “That is possible. Do not place too much reliance 
upon detectives and policemen. There was a case in Chi¬ 
cago, some years ago; I remember it as a matter of 
criminal history. I refer to the disappearance of Willie 
Tascott. You recall the case?” 

“Yes, he was accused of murdering a millionaire.” 

“Exactly. His description was complete. A large 
reward was offered for his capture; and yet, after all these 
years, nothing has been seen of him, dead or alive. Was 
it confederates or just a clever individual against rather 
stupid policemen and detectives?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Helen replied hesitatingly. 
“I never thought of it in that way.” 

“Of course, there is an explanation for everything 

[iio] 



An Explanation for Everything 


and there is an explanation for Mandell’s disappearance, 
but evidently he does not think it is any of our business.” 

Helen winced. “Perhaps that is true but he was so 
good and dear to me that I cannot forget him nor what 
he has done and I pray he may find happiness at last.” 

Mortell was very solemn. “I am sure he will find it,” 
he murmured. 

At that instant, a half dozen cards shot into the room. 
Helen awoke to the reason for her visit at once. 

“I have been very thoughtless, Mr. Mortell. I should 
not have taken so much of your time.” 

Mortell dropped the cards into his pocket without 
looking at them. “They will wait. No hurry at all.” 

“But I came to see you about a case and I have been 
here so long that — I will call again.” 

“I hope you will, but you are not going to be hurried 
now. Just take all the time you want and tell me about 
this case in your own way.” 

Thereupon she related the facts just as Doctor Gordon 
had told them to her. There was a merry twinkle in the 
lawyer’s eyes which she did not see. 

“That was one of the reasons that Mandell wanted me 
to come here,” he told her, “and I have not forgotten it. 
Don’t you see this case emphasizes what I said about in¬ 
competent police. We have two mysterious disappearances 
— the student and the woman whom he is accused of mur¬ 
dering.” 

“That’s true,” Helen acknowledged. 

“We have made slow progress. Mandell’s departure 
set things back a year. I have called in a new detective and 
we feel certain this woman is not in Chicago.” 

“So, you believe she did not die?” 

[m] 




The Man With the Face 


“I’m sure she did not. You can find a dead body easy 
enough: not always a live one. I am working upon the 
theory that she stood in some one’s way — her husband’s 
perhaps. He left her for dead and so far as he ever learned 
she did die, and he was free to go on with his venture 
whatever it was. I think I know who and what but do not 
care to commit myself just yet. Naturally this woman is 
not anxious to disabuse him of his delusion. Her safety 
demands silence. 

“She is hiding somewhere. The neighborhood where 
she resided and where the crime was committed indicates 
that she was in straitened circumstances. Nevertheless, she 
may have wealthy relatives or friends. We believe we can 
lay our hands upon the man but may have to enlarge 
our operations to cover the entire United States before 
we find the woman. At present, w€ are investigating the 
histories of abandoned wives, divorce records, common law 
marriages, etc. We have as you see, undertaken a big job 
but we have faith in our reasoning. 

“You may wonder why we are so sure of this theory. 
We have some good reasons. First of all, that anonymous 
letter. In Mandell’s mind, there was no doubt as to whom 
it referred. This fellow was very busy for a time. Certain 
of his schemes miscarried badly. They fit in with other 
reasons. Recently I have received threatening letters. I 
am satisfied I know the author and understand his purpose. 
They are lucky letters to us. This is the old story of the 
detection of criminals — just such a thoughtless impulse as 
the writing of these letters. I believe that at last we are 
upon the right track.” 

The little lady’s big eyes were full of wonder and ad¬ 
miration. 


[112] 



An Explanation for Everything 


“I am so glad I came here, Mr. Mortell. Frankly, 

I had some doubt of the young man’s innocence even after 
all Doctor Gordon said for him. Now I am convinced. 
You are very convincing, Mr. Mortell. Lawyers have to 
be, of course.” 

There was just one thing Mortell could think of that 
instant. Cupid was in his office but he was afraid to trust 
him. He felt his face burning hot and hid behind another 
document. 

Helen missed the meaning of his strange conduct al¬ 
together, she was so full of the affair. “There must be 
considerable expense to work of this nature,” she continued. 
“That’s to be my share in it.” 

Mortell dropped the paper instantly. “Oh, that will 
be easy to arrange,” he agreed. “There is nothing like 
team work. Of course, we shall have to be careful and 
keep our own counsels. We must not use the telephone to 
discuss the case, so I shall expect to see you from time to 
time. If anything unusual develops, could I — eh — call 
upon you, some evening?” 

Helen hesitated a minute. He knew the reason but 
her answer rectified that entirely. 

“I shall be home every Thursday evening,” she told 
him without looking up. 

“Next Thursday?” he asked, surer of the unusual de¬ 
velopments than of her answer. 

“Yes,” she said, arising to depart. 

The “yes” was very low but he would have heard it 
had it been the faintest whisper. “It’s a beginning,” he 
assured himself after she had gone. He sat down oblivi¬ 
ous to an office full of waiting clients, with his head propped 
upon his hands and a look of great happiness in his eyes. 

[ii3] 




The Man With the Face 


Another card shot into the room and brought him 
back to earth. He telephoned Bellamy to bring the crowd 
to rehearsal at his house, and made him promise to take 
dinner with him at the club. Then he jotted down in his 
memo an appointment with the postal inspector for four 
thirty that afternoon; and work began. 


[iH] 




CHAPTER XIII. 


The Boldest Stroke is the Safest 

B ELLAMY was sitting behind a screen of afternoon 
Dailies in the farthest corner of the dining room 
when Mortell arrived at the Club. 

“Are you reading or hiding?” the attorney asked, 
dropping into a chair across from his submerged friend. 

The paper dropped instantly; and a studious, serious, 
red face bore down upon the unsuspecting attorney. “It 
has already cost a dollar and the friendship of a dozen 
good fellows to keep this corner private.” 

Mortell looked up questioningly. “Bad as that? I’d 
offer to compensate you but I know you have more money 
than you can spend and more friends than one man needs. 
But why so grouchy? Let the good fellows join us. It’s 
my buy.” 

Bellamy shook his head hopelessly. “Nobody at home 
upstairs,” he complained. “Now, listen, I’ve something to 
tell you.” 

Mortell feigned surprise. “I have two ears,” he 
replied. 

Bellamy shifted about and crossed his legs several 
ways. The news was evidently important. 

“The police are watching your friend, Standing,” he 
finally announced, leaning over the table with the weight 
of his message. “He couldn’t get out of Chicago if he 
tried.” 


[115] 


The Man With the Face 


Mortell gave a start. He knew Bellamy had some 
sort of honorary connection with the police department, 
and the announcement seemed anything but welcome. 

“The detectives are rounding up a gang in the freight 
yards of the Northwestern Railroad—” 

“Railroad?” Mortell repeated incredulously. 

“Sure thing,” Bellamy continued. “There is no ques¬ 
tion about the gang, but the case against Standing is not 
complete. Somebody has put him on his guard, but the 
police are waiting. There is a head to the gang — a man 
of brains. The police are pretty sure Standing is the man 
— sure enough to nab him, should he attempt to get 
away. Furthermore, you may recall a few burglaries that 
followed certain conspicuous North Side functions. Stand¬ 
ing was a guest upon each occasion.” 

Bellamy leaned back in his chair, seemingly, easier 
for being rid of the information. 

“Poor Mrs. Collins,” he resumed. “What a splash 
there’ll be on the North Side one of these days! We have 
got to give it to that chap. His nerve is Titanic.” 

Mortell was silent a few minutes. His lack of en¬ 
thusiasm was disappointing to Bellamy. 

“Have the police any new ideas about the medical 
student?” he asked. 

Bellamy shook his head. “I don’t believe Standing 
would commit murder.” 

“Which answers my question very nicely. I am firmer 
in this belief than ever. Why is Standing writing these 
threatening letters?” 

“Oh, you have interfered with his social; progress, 
you know.” 

Mortell snapped his fingers in disgust. Standing, 
[u6] 



The Boldest Stroke Is the Safest 


knows more than you think. He knows I am after him 
and he thinks he knows who I am and —” Bellamy’s eyes 
closed to a narrow slit, “I don’t doubt at all, he does know 
who I am.” 

Bellamy was astounded. In vain he tried to hide the 
vanishing hope in his eyes. Mortell was not deceived and 
raised a warning hand. “Not yet, Fred. It’s not time. 
It’s not two years yet.” 

“Oh, I’m not asking you,” Bellamy interrupted with 
some embarrassment, “you are doing all the talking. You 
say Standing knows who you are and all the time you are 
doing your worst to make him tell it. Why don’t you let 
up on him?” 

Mortell smiled self consciously. “Wait until you hear 
my plans for to-night, Fred, and then tremble for my safety. 
Here is a copy of the play. See, I am placing his letter in 
it. There is no doubt that he wrote it. When I give the 
word, I want you to pass the book to him; and be sure to 
drop the letter where one of the girls can pick it up. She 
will read it if we make her believe it is a love letter. I 
want her to read it aloud.” 

Bellamy shook his head. “You probably know your 
business, old chap; I hope you do.” 

Mortell was the picture of confidence. “It’s very 
simple, my boy. I intend to make Standing think he doesn’t 
know me, after all, or wish that he didn’t. The boldest 
stroke is always the safest. The more Standing knows, the 
better for me. Likely enough, I shall give him some addi¬ 
tional information, myself — just a hint or two — then we 
shall see what we shall see.” 

Bellamy was still skeptical and Mortell smiled re¬ 
assuringly. “Don’t take it so hard, Fred. I ought to tell 

[ii7] 



The Man With the Face 


you everything right now, but I can’t very well. It might 
spoil my plans.” 

Bellamy appeared injured. “I don’t want you to tell 
me a thing, man.” 

“I know, Fred, bless you; but Standing and I happen 
to have met before.” 

Bellamy was doing some vigorous thinking and Mor- 
tell knew it. 

“It’s great fun, Fred, enacting this role of Ralph 
Mortell which you and that other great playwright, Des¬ 
tiny, have assigned to me; and,” he leaned lower and spoke 
in firm tones, “I’m not through with it yet, and I’ll be play¬ 
ing it after to-night, and Standing will clap his hands every 
time I give him the cue.” 

They both straightened up in their chairs. Mortell’s 
assurance was contagious. 

“Now there’s Burt Shurly coming in here — he’s the 
most natural feeder in Chicago. I’m just bound to spend 
some money, Freddie. See if you can round up the lost 
friends.” 


[w8] 




CHAPTER XIV. 


Standing’s Bad Heart 

HE rehearsals for the charity play were affording 



considerable entertainment to the cast and Mr. Stand- 


ing who had appointed himself stage director and 
never missed a meeting. When Bellamy came in with his 
crowd, explaining that he had taken the liberty to give, the 
artists an opportunity to work off any possible stage fright 
before it was too late, everyone applauded save Standing 
who sat there unmoved, apparently displeased over sharing 
a privilege which he had hitherto monopolized. 

Of course the rehearsal could not begin at once, and 
Mrs. Collins found it necessary to display the proceeds 
from the splendid advance sale of tickets which she had 
collected that afternoon. The money in bills of large 
denominations, was dumped promiscuously into a funny and 
frail little bag; and she was not satisfied with one addition, 
for the amount ran above five thousand dollars. 

“You are very brave,” Bellamy told her, “to carry 
such a treasure.” 

Mrs. Collins was not the least alarmed. “Do you 
really think so, or rather that I am foolhardy, instead? 
The banks were closed, my car was in the repair shop, and 
I rode all the way home in a crowded street car, but my 
hand was on the bag all the time.” 

There was a chorus of startled “Ohs” from the ladies 
and a roar of laughter from the men. Mrs. Collins was 
neither impressed nor pleased. 

“At any rate, there is no danger, now. 


[119] 


This is the 


The Man With the Face 


North Side and I am among friends,” she declared in chal¬ 
lenging tones. 

“There have been burglaries on the North Side,” Bel¬ 
lamy persisted. 

Mrs. Collins could not deny that assertion but her 
resolution was irrevocable. 

“It’s true, but the responsibility is mine and I shall 
not run away from it. However, in deference to the gloomy 
views of my friends, I shall consent to share the responsi¬ 
bility by asking Mr. Mortell and Mr. Standing to walk 
home with Mr. Collins and myself.” 

“Walk?” a dozen chorused. “You are not going to 
walk home?” 

“Of course, it’s such a perfect night for walking. We 
walked over. What are we coming to — a walkless and 
legless age? The distance is scarcely more than a block.” 

“Three blocks and a half, to be correct,” Mr. Collins 
seconded. 

Mr. Collins’ effort won immediate recognition. The 
ladies tittered, Mrs. Collins herself laughed outright, and 
Bellamy roared and slapped poor Mortell upon the back 
until it ached. It was a wonderful triumph for little in¬ 
consequential Mr. Collins. Heaven knew, he had tried 
often enough to say something funny, and now, all uncon¬ 
sciously, without the least effort, he had done it. 

Now, while everyone else was having a good time, 
Standing was finding the diversion less pleasing every 
minute. From the instant that Mrs. Collins displayed her 
dangerous sum of money — the appearance of five thousand 
dollars did not appeal to him at all — he had been working 
his way toward the door; but he was not to escape so easily. 

“I’m going for cigars,” he explained in answer to 

[ 120 ] 




Standing’s Bad Heart 


Mrs. Collins’ call, without turning around. “I’ll be back 
in a few minutes.” 

‘‘Then, don’t go any farther,” Mortell shouted, “the 
library is full of cigars — more cigars than books.” 

Standing came back, the picture of enforced humility. 
“I am not trying to evade my responsibility, Mrs. Collins. 
It takes a smart man to get by with a little lie, doesn’t it? 
Well, there is only one thing to do. I feel sorry for you 
folks but you have brought it upon yourselves — I’ll have 
to take you all into my confidence. I am going to the 
little drug store on the corner, not for cigars at all, but 
for medicine. You might not think, to look at me, that 
my heart is fussing up a bit but my doctor does. He is 
making me take a heart tonic and I’ve missed two doses 
to-day. I’ll be right back.” 

Bellamy edged over to Mortell. “If you were looking 
right at a thousand watt Tungsten, could you see a light?” 
he whispered. 

“Pretty sure thing.” 

“He is mighty hard up or nervy.” 

“He knows the money won’t be there after to-night.” 

“I’m going upstairs and telephone the police. It’s the 
Collins house to-night. We’ll surprise him this time.” 

Standing returned triumphantly flourishing a small bot¬ 
tle of a black concoction which no one would consent to 
taste. Mrs. Collins was worried. “We really need a 
prompter to-night but I do not feel like asking you, Mr. 
Standing.” 

Standing laughed. “By all means, Mrs. Collins. My 
case is not that desperate. A few bottles of this bitter 
stuff now and then is the price I pay for the privilege of 
smoking — nothing dangerous, I imagine.” 

[ 121 ] 




The Man With the Face 


So the guests took their seats and Standing, with the 
air of a martyr, dropped into a chair at one end. Mortell 
passed his copy of the play to Bellamy. 

“Here, boy, give this book to the stage manager,” he 
ordered with a dramatic flourish. 

Bellamy was very awkward and dropped the book 
and a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. One of the 
girls picked it up and quite naturally glanced at the writing. 

“Why, it’s a letter,” she shouted with a challenging 
look at Mortell. 

Bellamy threw up both arms in supplication. “Don’t 
read it, girls,” he warned. “You’ll be disappointed. Mor¬ 
tell gets a hundred love letters a day. They are all 
monotonously alike. The janitor showed me a couple of 
hundred that he saved from the sweepings, and even he has 
quit reading them.” 

The scheme worked perfectly, and like a flock of 
hungry, chattering birds, the young ladies swooped down 
upon the unfortunate discoverer. 

“Stop, girls,” she shouted. “Don’t crush me. Let me 
breathe. I’ll read it aloud if you let me. It’s too funny 
for anything.” 

While Standing sat still as a statue with the open 
book in his lap, superior and bored; and Mortell stood 
back helpless and somewhat embarrassed, for he never 
dreamed Bellamy would go so far or make the affair so 
personal, the triumphant young woman read these words. 

“I know who you are. I know all about you. I am 
not so easy as some people on the North Side, and you 
had better mind your own business. This is final. 

One who knows you.” 

[122] 




Standing’s Bad Heart 


The effect was rather startling. A few tried to laugh 
but evidently the reader alone found it funny. 

“It’s not a love letter at all,” someone observed. 

“It’s threatening rather than funny,” another re¬ 
marked. 

“It’s a man’s hand, that’s sure,” the reader admitted 
with belated conviction; and in this light, finding it a thing 
to be feared, she lost no time in restoring it to Mortell. 

Mortell turned to Bellamy with a puzzled expression. 
“I don’t know what to do about this, Fred. You have put 
me in a hole.” 

Bellamy’s red face took on a brighter shade. “I didn’t 
know the fishing would be so good,” he chuckled, “but don’t 
worry. The ladies will not believe that you are such a 
trifler — they know I was joking.” 

Mortell shook his head. “It’s not that at all. You 
see, this letter does not belong to me. I found it after last 
rehearsal.” (Standing was taking in every word.) “I know 
who dropped it. But the remarkable thing about the letter 
is that I received one of the same wording in a different 
handwriting, and several others of a similar nature. Some 
one called this letter funny. It is funny to me, but I am 
sure the author did not intend it to be funny. I am also 
sure that the composer did not write the letter I received. 
He is too cowardly to risk disguising his own hand. This 
letter which you have seen is a copy from which mine 
was written by a confederate. All the threatening letters 
were written by the same confederate. You can draw your 
own conclusions.” 

There was not another sound in the whole room. 
Every eye was upon Mortell. Without another word, he 
coolly walked up to Standing and dropped the letter in his 

[123] 



The Man With the Face 


lap. It was a terrible moment for Standing. Mortell’s 
eyes were hard and cold as steel. The crowd had gathered 
behind him under the spell of this sudden drama. Stand¬ 
ing’s face turned white. He would not rise. He failed 
miserably before all these witnesses. 

“Why the Devil, are you giving me this?” he snarled 
making the best showing possible without daring to look up. 

Mortell was merciless. “Because you dropped it,” 
he declared. 

“Is that all the evidence you’ve got?” Standing re¬ 
torted, gaining the courage to sneer. 

“It is not. This letter is positively in your hand¬ 
writing. You know it is.” 

Standing moved uneasily. “Whose business is it, any¬ 
way? Are you a detective?” 

“It’s my business. I am tired of this blackmail. I 
want you to explain to these people just why you wrote all 
those threatening letters or I — will.” 

“I didn’t write them, I tell you.” 

Mortell was holding himself in with an effort. He 
turned to his audience. “This man is my guest, but —” 

The scene was becoming too one sided to suit Bellamy’s 
idea of fair play. “Come, Ralph,” he pleaded linking his 
arm into the attorney’s and dragging him back, “my opinion 
is that it’s a joke, nothing more serious, I’m sure.” 

Standing leaped into the breach. “That’s the very 
thing. Maybe I can straighten it out. I did write this 
sheet and I will tell you the reason. I didn’t suppose any¬ 
one else was interested in my private affairs, else I might 
have prevented this rumpus and I realize now that I should 
have spoken out at once. I got a letter just like this: same 
wording exactly. I confess it annoyed me at first. I must 
[124] 




Standing’s Bad Heart 


have read it a dozen times until it became fixed in my 
memory. I decided next morning to take it to the postal 
inspector but could not find the thing so wrote this letter 
from memory. Well, the inspector was not in when I 
called and I never went back — it seemed more ridiculous 
than anything else after I had time to cool down.” 

Mortell shook his head deprecatingly and smiled. “I 
cannot take it so lightly. I gave my letters to the inspector.” 

Standing assumed a careless air. “As you please: I 
am going to forget the incident.” 

Mrs. Collins arose grandly to the occasion. “So after 
all, you gentlemen are partners in trouble? Why not put 
your heads together and get after this busy blackmailer?” 
She turned to the others. “Come, children, Mr. Mortell 
has a collection of old masters that is quite unbelievable.” 

It was a rather disappointing climax but there was no 
alternative; and in a second the room was cleared of all 
but the leading actors in the unexpected drama. Mortell 
selected a chair directly in front of his enemy. Standing 
had not moved since the quarrel began. There was no 
fight in him, that was certain. 

“Now Standing, we are going to thresh this thing 
out in a hurry. Let’s speak plain. Why did you write 
those letters? What do you want?” 

Standing looked up uncertainly and immediately 
dropped his eyes. “I was fooling. I didn’t know you 
would get sore.” 

Mortell was thoroughly disgusted. “That’s puerile, 
that answer. I know what you want; but Heavens, man, 
you are not to be left alone by threatening me. I chose 
this method to convince you that I am not to be intimidated. 

[125] 



The Man With the Face 


You will never have a better chance to tell who I am than 
you had to-night. Why didn’t you tell?” 

“I haven’t anything against you.” 

Mortell snapped his fingers in the craven’s face. “You 
didn’t dare tell; you know you didn’t and you never will 
dare, so why waste your time threatening me?” 

“I haven’t anything against you,” he whined again. 

Mortell moved closer and Standing hung his head still 
lower. 

“Standing, take a good look at me.” 

Standing obeyed like an automaton but his eyes fell 
at once. 

“I am Ralph Mortell. Conditions have changed since 
Mandell disappeared. You would have a pretty hard time 
to make these people believe I am someone else, and what 
if you could convince them? It would only spoil a little 
fun for me. That’s all. I would not leave Chicago or 
change my occupation or lose my friends. But my heart is 
set on this thing, man; and I shall not be denied. I have 
never committed a crime but I could for — this.” 

He arose from his chair and leaned over the cowering 
figure of the big helpless man. “You can’t unscramble an 
egg, can you? What you have done cannot be undone. 
It wouldn’t do society any good to hurt your big hulk, 
would it? If you lived straight and clean from now on, 
it wouldn’t, would it? 

“Standing, I know you hate me and I haven’t any love 
for you.” He straightened up with a hand resting lightly 
on the back of the chair, “At the very great risk of boring 
you, I shall take the liberty of offering you a little advice. 
Don’t tell anyone that you ever met me before. What¬ 
ever happens, don’t make any mistake about my name. 

[126] 





Standing’s Bad Heart 


It’s Ralph Mortell. I am a very appreciative person. I 
might do incredible things for a man who favors me.” 

Standing shifted about nervously, and cleared his 
throat; but did not dare commit himself. Mortell did not 
wait for an answer. 

“Buck up, Standing,” he said with a friendly thump 
on the back. “We will pass through the library. There 
is something there which the Devil prompts weak men to 
drink when they need bracing. I shall apologize for mak¬ 
ing a scene. We must be good friends when we join the 
crowd.” 

Standing gained courage with every step. He was 
thinking that, after all, he had come out of the encounter 
not so badly. Mortell had the advantage, naturally enough, 
and could talk brave: he was a good bluffer: anyone can 
bluff in his own house with a gang behind him. 

He was wild when he thought of the letter. He had 
never been so careless. It would be a good lesson. So 
Mortell wanted something, too. He was not too brave to 
explain that. Very well, it takes two to make a bargain, 
and Mr. Mortell would have to come half way; and Stand¬ 
ing began to believe that he would. He wished he had 
known about this when he went to the drug store. Pretty 
dangerous business, escorting five thousand dollars around. 
No telling what might happen to such a brave fellow as 
this masquerading attorney. He was quite himself again 
when Mortell addressed the waiting company. 

“Mr. Standing has been very magnanimous, folks, and 
we have joined forces. I owe an apology to all of you. I 
have been very remiss in my observation of the rules of 
hospitality and good breeding. I jumped at conclusions. I 
have done my friend a grave injustice and have humiliated 

[127] 





The Man With the Face 


myself. Please help me out by keeping this affair a secret. 

“Mr. Standing and I are not native sons.. Somebody 
who does not know us as well as might be, thinks we are 
easy, no doubt. Don’t be surprised after this if we both are 
accused of anything from matrimony to wife abandonment.” 

Standing gave a start, turned pale, and forced a smile. 
Bellamy and Mortell exchanged significant glances. No one 
else shared their interpretation of the facial display. Finally 
rehearsal started. 

Bellamy drew his friend aside as he was leaving the 
house. 

“Be careful of Standing,” he warned. 

Mortell chuckled. “He certainly had a nice time. 
I am greatly obliged to you, Fred. The enemy capitulated 
at once.” 

Bellamy was worried. “That’s the worst of it. When 
a fellow surrenders without a fight there is a yellow streak 
in him, and a fellow with a yellow streak is mighty danger¬ 
ous. Don’t let him get behind you.” 

Mortell laughed again. “No chance. Standing is my 
friend.” 

When Mortell returned to the library, Standing and 
the Collins’ were ready for the walk home. 


[128] 




CHAPTER XV. 

A Surgeon and a Man 

M ORTELL was thinking of little things for he was 
walking with the “husband of Mrs. Collins.” He 
had often laughed at the sobriquet. He would 
never laugh at it again. It was so appropriate. He wished 
Bellamy might drop around a corner, for Standing had 
deliberately gone ahead with the lady and the treasure. 

It was a wonderful night for walking, with a high, 
full moon. It seemed a ridiculous coincidence — the night 
and the little man who couldn’t talk. Mechanically he 
drew out his watch, halting before an alley. The hour 
was very late. Standing and Mrs. Collins were moving 
slowly but a few steps in advance. The little man stopped 
with him. Not another sound disturbed the sleeping neigh¬ 
borhood. As he stood there with his eyes close to the 
face of his watch, he felt a sharp blow upon the left temple. 
He did not lose consciousness at once but was very con¬ 
fused. He heard Mrs. Collins scream and saw someone 
run down the alley with her bag. Then he became teiribly 
dizzy and sank to the sidewalk. His head ached fearfully. 
He was awake but weak. 

Mrs. Collins must have fainted. He was positive he 
had seen her necklace in Standing s hands, but his head 
whirled so much that he could not fix an object for long. 
When he did begin to feel sure of himself, his head was in 
Mrs. Collins’ lap, her husband was fanning him with his 

[129] 


The Man With the Face 


hat, and Standing was leaning down, inquiring if he was 
badly injured. 

Mortell ran his hand over the left temple and found 
it swollen and painful. 

“My head aches pretty badly but I am not dizzy any 
longer,” he assured them. “It’s nothing serious; just a 
hard rap in a soft place.” He turned to Mrs. Collins who 
was stroking his forehead to relieve the headache. “But 
you have been held up. Did you lose anything else?” he 
inquired. 

“Oh that’s a mere trifle.” 

“Did you lose any other valuables — any jewelry?” 
he persisted. 

Automatically her hand went to her throat. Stand¬ 
ing was looking elsewhere. 

“My necklace is gone,” she gasped. “I never knew it.” 

“That was very valuable. Don’t waste another 
thought on me.” 

Mrs. Collins could not entirely conceal her feelings. 
“My grandmother wore that necklace when she was a belle. 
It is all that is left of a once big fortune. It is really 
historical, but it is easier to trace such a thing than money. 
If we do not recover it, it will not be from lack of effort.” 

His companions would not permit Mortell to walk 
alone; but his strength returned rapidly and in a few 
minutes they were retracing their steps to his home. 

“It was done in a second,” Standing explained as they 
walked along. “The fellow came from behind. He got 
you first, snatched the necklace and bag with one hand and 
struck at me with the other. By that time he was really 
in front of me, so I had the advantage over you and dodged 
his blow. Then Mrs. Collins fainted; and I had something 

[130] 



A Surgeon and a Man 


on my hands; and in the confusion, the footpad escaped 
down the alley.” 

At the door, Standing left them at once. ihere 
seemed no need to detain him — Mortell felt so much 
better. Once within the house, however, Mrs. Collins 
aroused the servants, summoned a near-by physician without 
consulting the attorney, and kept the telephone busy with a 
personal statement to the police and a favored night editor. 

Mortell lay down upon a divan trying to convince 
himself that he was not beginning to feel worse; for though 
he lay still as possible, the room and the furnishings began 
to move. His pain was no longer acute. His hearing was 
dulled. The voice at the telephone sounded farther and 
farther. His mouth seemed to be full and his lips and 
tongue thick and heavy. He was becoming thoroughly 
frightened. He tried to speak; tried and tried until his 
words became a wild shriek for help. 

“Call_Helen — Ver-ban-an — Doc-ther-Gordon — 

14—14—16 Canal.” 

Mrs. Collins rushed in. He was unconscious before 
she reached him. 

“Heaven help us. What does it mean? she moaned, 
dropping to her knees, catching his limp hands, and listen¬ 
ing in terror to his slowly loudly beating heart. His breath¬ 
ing was labored and convulsive. His appearance was fnght- 

ful ’ “Oh, why did we let Mr. Standing go? Thank God, 
I have sent for a physician. He ought to be here. What 
can we do?” She looked at her officious little helpmate as 
upon a forlorn hope. 

“The husband of Mrs. Collins” was equal to the emer¬ 


gency. 





The Man With the Face 


“He is comatose, poor fellow, and we have no time to 
lose. I’ll call Doctor Gordon at once. I’ll explain every¬ 
thing.” 

Doctor Bergan summoned by Mrs. Collins dashed up 
at the instant in his car. 

“Oh, doctor, is he dying? Quick, tell me,” and the 
overwrought woman pinched the doctor’s arm until he 
squirmed. 

“Compose yourself, dear lady, and answer my ques¬ 
tions. We must hurry. He was struck by some dull instru¬ 
ment upon the temple?” 

“Yes ” 

“When?” 

“Two hours ago.” 

“Has he been unconscious ever since? You didn’t 
mention this when you called me.” 

“No, no. He lost consciousness not ten minutes before 
you arrived. He was dazed at first but only for a minute 
or two. The blow did not knock him down at once, and he 
rallied rapidly and insisted upon walking home. It was not 
far,” and briefly she related the history of the holdup and 
subsequent events. 

The doctor made a hurried examination. “I must 
have help, Mrs. Collins,” he told her. “This is a surgical 
case and I am no surgeon. We must remove him to a 
hospital at once.” 

Mr. Collins came into the room. “I found him,” he 
announced. “He is coming with a surgeon. He will call 
again after communicating with the surgeon. It’s a rather 
strange coincidence, for he also directed me to go for Miss 
Verban.” 

The doctor turned to Mrs. Collins, apparently re- 
[132] 



A Surgeon and a Man 


lieved by the announcement. “The poor fellow called for 
Doctor Gordon and naturally he will take charge of the 
case. Is there anything I can do for you?” 

Mrs. Collins was perilously near the breaking point. 

“Please stay until Doctor Gordon comes,” she fal¬ 
tered. “I have not the slightest idea what it all means. 
I can hardly believe I am not dreaming. I must go for 
Helen. I don’t understand it at all — the poor boy’s call¬ 
ing for her; but I am going for her. I can’t stand it any 
longer.” 

The telephone rang again and Mr. Collins sprang to 
the receiver. “It’s from Doctor Gordon,” he shouted, 

relaying the message word for word. “Doctor B-will 

operate. The hospital ambulance is on the way. It’s from 
St. Joseph’s because that is the nearest. We must bring 
Helen there at once.” 

“My car is waiting,” Doctor Bergan said, offering his 
arm to the bewildered woman. “I’ll remain.” 

It seemed ages to Mrs. Collins before the car came 
to a violent stop in front of the Verban residence. She did 
not waste a minute at the door but sped on to Helen’s apart¬ 
ments. The young woman awoke with a cry of terror, her 
room flooded with light and a strange woman hastily gath¬ 
ering an armful of her own clothes. 

“It’s I, Madge. Hurry, dear, dress fast as you can.” 

Helen relieved at once by the sound of her friend’s 
voice, turned out of bed and rubbed her eyes; and as they 
worked together, Mrs. Collins related the fearful story of 
the attack. When she came to the climax, repeating his 
cry for help and rushing in to find him unconscious, Helen 
pulled herself back in anger. 

[i33] 





The Man With the Face 


“It’s the work of that scoundrel, Standing,” she de¬ 
clared. 

“But Standing was with us.” 

“It’s his work, I tell you,” she fairly shouted. She 
shook her head sadly. “Poor boy, poor young man,” she 
moaned, and broke down entirely. 

Mrs. Collins lifted the quivering little body and kissed 
her. “Now, little girl, be brave,” she pleaded. “We must 
hurry. I don’t know what it means but we must go.” 

Helen cleared her eyes. Her face brightened at once. 
“He wants to tell me something, Madge — something 
about business.” She tried to smile and broke down again. 
“I am afraid, Madge. I cannot trust myself. I never saw 
anyone die.” 

Mrs. Collins was actually carrying her from the house. 

“Doctor B- will save him, dearie. We are to see a 

wonderful operation. I have a world of faith in Doctor 
B-.” 

Helen clung to her all of the way. 

“Don’t leave me a minute, will you Madge?” she 
pleaded, when the machine halted in front of the hospital, 
“not a minute? I am afraid.” 

“No, dear little girl, of course I will not leave you a 
second.” 

The hospital was quiet. Doctor Gordon met them out¬ 
side the operating room. He wore a white gown. Helen 
shrank back involuntarily. 

“The middle meningeal artery of the left side is rup¬ 
tured,” he announced. “Nothing but an operation can 
save him, and that is hazardous. Only a few survive, but 

we are early and Doctor B- is very skillful. Doctor 

B-wants you, little Missie, to see his condition. The 

[134] 








A Surgeon and a Man 


poor young man called for us and Doctor B-is anxious 

to have us know he is doing the right thing.” 

Mrs. Collins put her strong arms about the trembling 
little lady and they followed the big white gowned doctor. 
The great surgeon stood by the operating table, a statue 
in white, with his face and head almost buried in gauze. 
On a little table was a tray of instruments which had been 
sterilized, awaiting their master’s hand. The anaesthetist 
sat at the head of the operating table with a mask poised 
over the stricken man’s face. A small mob of white gowned 
internes and nurses were grouped upon either side. 

Doctor B-looked at the frightened young woman 

almost impatiently. “All right, Miss Verban?” he coolly 
asked. 

She bowed her head and turned her back to the awful 
sight. Her heart was full of protest. They looked so 
cruel, everyone in unfeeling white. 

“Take the ladies down stairs, Gordon,” the surgeon 
directed, “and come back. We are losing valuable time.” 

They were silent, it seemed ages to Helen before either 
dared speak. 

“Isn’t he a wonderful man?” Mrs. Collins asked. 

“Doctor B-, you mean?” 

“Yes.” 

“He’s a wonderful brute.” 

“Poor child,” Mrs. Collins was always happy in de¬ 
fence, “you will change your mind. Doctor B- is a 

charming man. It was the surgeon who spoke to you, not 
the man. A surgeon has to be calm and cold when he does 
his work, but the heart is there when he plans it and when 

it is finished.” „ 

“I am afraid, Madge, afraid he will never wake up. 

[i35] 









The Man With the Face 


“Of course he will, child. Doctor B-told me only 

a little anaesthetic would be needed.” 

Helen shook with terror. “Then he must be dead. 
We would hear him cry, wouldn’t we, Madge?” 

“No — no, dearie. I have been talking too much.” 

Helen nestled up closer. “You are the smartest woman 
in the world, Madge, and I’ll never be angry with you 
again.” 

“I’ll forgive you if you are.” 

“You are always good.” 

“Don’t say that, dearie. I am always bungling every¬ 
thing.” 

For answer, Helen leaned over and kissed her. They 
did not want to talk after that. 

It could not have been three quarters of an hour until 
the door opened and Doctor Gordon came in with the light 
of good news in his eyes. 

“He wants you, Missie. Come, both of you.” 

There was a different atmosphere here: no cruel in¬ 
struments nor smell of anaesthetics. There were flowers 
and bedroom furnishings. Doctor B-, with his assist¬ 

ants, stood at the foot of the bed, so irrepressibly happy, 
that Helen felt like casting herself at his feet. 

He took her hand and led her to the bedside. From 
beneath a circle of skillfully coiled soft white gauze, two 
magnificent black eyes looked up at her in perfect recogni¬ 
tion. 

“Helen, little, wonderful woman,” he whispered, “you 
came.” 

She leaned down with her breath warm upon his cold 
cheek and kissed him before everyone. Then she felt a 

[136] 







A Surgeon and a Man 


light touch upon her arm and the surgeon, big hearted, 
human, man, led her gently from the room. 

“Now, little lady,” he said, holding her face in his 
big warm hands — and his eyes were as soft as a boy’s — 
“you will just have to keep smiling. Twelve hours of 
perfect rest will do the business. He will be every bit as 
strong and smart and handsome as ever.” 

He turned to Mrs. Collins for Helen was not master 
of herself. “What is your pleasure?” 

“I am going home with Helen,” she answered. 

“Fine. My machine will accommodate you nicely.” 

Back in her own apartments, Helen moved like an 
automaton. Mrs. Collins put her to bed and crept in be¬ 
side her; and was half asleep when a voice aroused her. 

“Are you awake, Madge?” 

“Yes, dearie, can’t you sleep?” 

Helen did not reply at once. Mrs. Collins touched 
her face. It was hot as fire. ^ 

“Oh, Madge, what have I done, what have I done?” 

“Nothing, child.” 

“What will they think, what will they think?” 

“That you are a sweet, womanly woman; and I love 
you for what you did.” 

“It’s terrible, Madge. I will be ashamed to face 
anyone again. Why did I forget myself? He didn’t want 
to tell me anything, did he?” 

She was becoming hysterical and Mrs. Collins held 
her. “Listen, little girl. I am much older than you.. I 
am sure he did want to tell you something — something 
too precious for others to hear. ’ 

“What, Madge?” 

“That he loved you, dearie.” 

[i37l 




The Man With the Face 


The little lady sighed deeply. “He will never tell 
me that after what I did, to-night. Oh, Madge, I must 
never see him again. He will think I am bold, a good for 
nothing. Why Madge, I have seen him only once or twice 
but — I — I —loved him — and — I — I — can’t help it.” 

“Of course, dearie, you must love him. It’s just right. 
God brought him into your life. We cannot doubt that. 
He is worthy of you.” 

“But it seems to me I have known him a long time. 
I must never see him again. Never again.” 

Mrs. Collins drew her close. “It’s all right, dear 
little girl. It’s just right.” 

For a few minutes, the troubled little woman was 
quiet. 

“Say, Madge,” she lisped with the heavy intonation 

of a very sleepy person, “Doctor B- is a wonderful 

man.” 


[138] 




CHAPTER XVI. 


Pa and Ma and Etta 

M ORTELL was seriously contemplating a change in 
his business. He never realized before his injury 
how nearly impossible it is for one man to do 
another man’s work. It seemed that nothing had been done 
while he was gone, if he were to judge by the amount of 
work that he found waiting for him. 

A colleague had expressed his own idea very well. If 
the firm reads: “R. Mortell, Att’y at Law,” it makes little 
difference how many other names appear on the door, the 
client insists upon seeing R. Mortell himself; but change it 
to “Mortell, O’Brien, Rosenthal and Blatt;” and a certain 
proportion will like the name of O’Brien, another will pre¬ 
fer the sound of Rosenthal, while still another will want 
to speak in their native tongue with Blatt. Moreover, 
every client feels that he is consulting four men and getting 
the benefit of four brains instead of one. 

Mortell was deep in the contemplation of this scheme 
— everyone else had left the office, it was nearly six o’clock 
— when the door swung violently open and the detective 
whom he thought in the East, burst unannounced into his 
presence. Mortell was surprised and delighted. The de¬ 
tective’s bright red hair was only a shade brighter than his 
face, always the picture of exertion. He dropped heavily 
into a chair and drew a deep breath. 

Mortell gave him a big black cigar and lighted one 

[139] 


The Man With the Face 


himself. “I perceive you have a long story and it ought 
to go better with a man’s smoke. Cut loose; I’m all ears.” 

The detective took in another deep breath and a half 
dozen long draws from the formidable cigar, before he 
was ready to talk. “I hardly know where to begin,” he 
said. “I’ve been in town since two thirty but dogged if I 
could find the time or opportunity to even telephone you.” 

Mortell looked incredulous. “That’s three hours ago. 
What in the world have you been doing?” 

“Getting Pa and Ma located.” 

Mortell rocked nervously in his chair. “Never mind 
Pa and Ma. Tell me about your trip, the clue — was it 
another wild goose chase?” 

The detective looked up challengingly. “Not on your 
life,” he replied. “I’ve got the woman that was murdered.” 

Mortell leaned forward in rapt attention. “Dead? 
You have found the corpse, you mean?” 

The detective’s bright eyes twinkled. “Oh, she is still 
able to move and take nourishment, but I’ve not seen her 
smile or heard anything from her but ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ ” 

Mortell accepted every word at its full value. 

“Pretty bad shape?” he cautiously inquired. 

“Hard to tell. She has a little color in her cheeks and 
don’t appear to suffer any but Pa and Ma do all the think¬ 
ing and talking and suffering for her. She’s no bigger than 
my little girl who is only twelve, but Pa and Ma wouldn’t 
let her grow bigger if she wanted to.” 

“Who, the devil, are Pa and Ma?” 

“Pa is a Majah of State artillery, sah, regular tin 
soldier with a back that never bends. He is a young old 
fellow with iron grey hair and whiskers. He has never 
heard a joke in his whole life and has barrels of money. 

[140] 



Pa and Ma and Etta 


His face is a great deal like his back — only moves when 
he talks or eats, and the Lord knows he can do both. 

“Ma is a little more limber but looks a whole lot older. 
She is wiry, squirmy, and dead set against sickness and 
doctors. Pa is a first rate fellow at heart. Ma means 
well too, but has a pretty sharp tongue.” 

Mortell shook his head good naturedly. “Is Etta — 
the murdered woman?” 

“The very same; and, sometimes, I think she would 
be happier if she had not pulled through at all.” 

Mortell shook his head again. “I’ll be ever so grate¬ 
ful if you tell me the straight of this thing.” 

The detective consulted his watch. “I’ll do my best 
but I’ll have to hurry or Pa and Ma will change hotels 
again before I get back.” 

“Where are they now?” 

“I left them at the Congress but that was thirty min¬ 
utes ago; and figuring according to past performances, they 
have had time to register in two hotels already.” 

“For heaven’s sake, what sort of freaks are they?”. 

“I don’t know. Perhaps you can decide when you see 
them. I never met any like them, myself. Etta can be ex¬ 
plained but Pa and Ma — of course, there are one or two 
countries I’ve never been in, but you can’t find another team 
like them in America or Ireland, I’m sure. Pa and Ma want 
a quiet place and it’s no wonder after seeing the little box 
of a village in Mass, where they own a house bigger than 
the rest of the town. I have not the time to tell you the 
story of our hotel hunt. One time it was the noise of the 
elevated, another time a crowded elevator, then a defective 
electric light switch—they were in too great a hurry to wait 

[Hi] 




The Man With the Face 


for repairs—in another hotel, there was a little speck in the 
ice water, etc. etc.” 

“Take them out of the ‘Loop’ by all means.” 

“I tried that but nothing doing. Got almost in¬ 
sulted. Thought I took them for Gills. But they have 
another day to-morrow. I don’t suppose they will stay 
in one place more than a day.” 

“I don’t imagine they have any friends or acquain¬ 
tances in Chicago?” 

The detective smiled self consciously. “Can you beat 
it, the Major’s dad and Mr. Collins’ father were college 
chums at Harvard. They expect the Collins’ will be glad 
to receive them. They are to call to-morrow.” 

“That will be easy,” Mortell agreed. “I wish you 
had brought them here with you.” 

The detective laughed outright. “Pa can’t be brought 
unless he thinks of it first. He wants to see you bad enough 
and even thought of sending for you from the depot. You 
have got to go to him, and that reminds me. The Major 
insists upon your dining with him this very evening. He 
even includes myself. He was beginning to make arrange¬ 
ments to have dinner served in his apartments, when he 
directed me to look you up.” 

Mortell closed his desk with a bang. 

“Then, let us go at once.” 

The detective raised a lazy hand. “No hurry at all. 
Ten to one, he’s not through ordering yet. He will wind 
up by going to the kitchen and giving instructions in person. 
The Major has a world of confidence in — himself.” 

Mortell took time to brush his hat. “Come on,” he 
said to his dallying visitor. 

[142] 





Pa and Ma and Etta 


“Wait a minute. You forget that I have made no 
report yet. I’ll be brief. We have plenty of time.” 

Mortell sat down again with renewed interest. 

“Major Strong has one child, his daughter, Etta. Her 
mother died before Etta was a year old. He married his 
present wife after Etta was grown up. Etta was a very 
attractive young lady, is yet, for that matter, but there 
never was a chap in the village or state either with courage 
enough to call a second time, for Pa and Ma personally 
conducted the courting themselves, until a young college 
chap, who had met Etta during some college affair, came 
upon the scene. Pa and Ma didn’t like him a bit. He was 
a better athlete than scholar; and after graduation, he just 
drifted around, working his way through the world like he 
worked it through college. Etta liked him all right; and 
to make a long story short, the young folks eloped. 

“Pa and Ma met the situation with characteristic 
simplicity. Merely played there never had been a daugh¬ 
ter.” 

“Who was the husband?” 

“Charles Carson. As I told you he worked his way 
through college and continued the habit whenever he ran 
across an old college acquaintance or any other college man 
who would fall for the game. Finally they drifted to 
Chicago, where things went from bad to worse. 

“Carson soon tired of his wife and only tolerated her 
at all because of the chance that the Major might do some¬ 
thing for them. Eventually he began to prosper, but the 
more money he got hold of, the less he gave to his wife. 
He joined a couple of clubs and took apartments for him¬ 
self, only, in another part of the city. He had never told 
her the means of his increasing affluence, and came to her 

[i43] 




The Man With the Face 


only when it suited his convenience; but she accepted his 
niggardly allowance without a murmur. Poor girl, there 
was nothing else for her to do; and when he came to her 
squalid, dingy, rooms, a fugitive from justice — for he was 
involved in another crooked deal — she clung to him, abso¬ 
lutely loyal, until a clever lawyer got him out of trouble 
again. Then he left her without a word.” 

Mortell shook his head. “Lawyers do some rotten 
work, don’t they?” he exclaimed. 

The detective could not suppress a smile but continued 
without replying to the interruption. 

“This fellow was a cool bird, all right. Up in his 
own world, he posed among the Highbrows as a single 
gentleman. I don’t know what name he selected but it 
was not his own. In the course of events, he fell in with 
some heiress and decided to marry her. Then he called 
upon his wife. He didn’t have time to divorce her so tried 
to take a shorter cut — tried to buy her off, and when she 
refused his proposition, he attempted to frighten her into it. 

“Finally, one dark night, he called again with candy 
and Bowers and a nice story about being sorry for neglect¬ 
ing her, and the poor little thing fell for it at once. He 
told her he had brought a hack along to take her to their 
swell new home that very night. She had better come at 
once and could return in the morning for anything she 
thought she might want. 

“The hack was in the alley. This didn’t seem quite 
right but she was afraid to make a fuss. When she came 
to the back fence, she hesitated and her husband swore 
at her and pushed her through. Then she knew what it 
meant and tried to get away. I suppose it was the first 
time she ever stood up for herself. She put up a pretty 
[144] 




Pa and Ma and Etta 


good fight but somehow got all the worst of it. She would 
never tell just who stabbed her. It must have been her 
husband, of course. 

“You know the rest of the story. She was so fright¬ 
ened that she could think of nothing but getting as far 
away as possible; and soon as she could crawl out of bed, 
she escaped from the hospital. Her old landlady helped 
her and took her in and kept her hid while the police were 
looking for her. She was a nice big hearted, old girl, who 
had had a time of it herself. She opened negotiations with 
the Major while Etta was convalescing, and the Major 
came through like a man. He has so much old fashioned 
pride in his good name that he does foolish things some¬ 
times, but he means well. The folks down East don’t 
know a thing about this story. They knew Etta ran away 
and believe her husband is dead.” 

Mortell could not hold in any longer. He caught the 
detective’s hand and wrung it with all his might. “Fine 
work, old man. I congratulate you a thousand times. You 
have been busy.” 

The detective tried to look very insignificant. “It’s 
your head that deserves the credit, Mr. Mortell. You had 
the ideas. All I had to figure out was the landlady, and 
when I found her the rest was easy.” 

It was a happy moment for Mortell. “Have your 
own way, my friend. Team work is an advantage, but 
ideas are the least part of the wonderful work which you 
accomplished in so short a time.” 

“The hardest work was to get Pa and Ma to come,” 
the detective laughed. 

Mortell awoke from his dream with a start. “Oh, 
yes, one more question. Who is this beast of a husband?” 

[i45] 




The Man With the Face 


“Charles Carson.” 

“I mean his alibi.” 

The detective ran his fingers through his bright red 
hair and smiled. “I told you I didn’t know what name he 
took, but I have an idea and of course, you haven’t.” 

“Standing?” 

The detective smiled broadly. “Really, the Major 
doesn’t know. Etta had a picture of the scoundrel in a 
locket but the Major made short work of that. He doesn’t 
like to talk about him. I got a pretty complete description 
and it fits Standing perfectly. The Major doesn’t believe 
it is necessary to go into that feature at all. He is anxious 
to do justice to the student; and, by that, means not only 
to clear him of the crime but to reward him for the time 
he has lost and for the suffering which he has undergone.” 

Mortell thumped his associate on the back. “Fine 
business, isn’t it?” 

“One thing more, the Major will not stand for the 
hospital part of it. Pride enters here again. He doesn’t 
want it known that a daughter of his was ever a charity 
patient. He wants us to believe that he was looking for her 
all of the time and removed her of his own accord.” 

“That will be easy,” Mortell agreed. “We can fix 
up a story to order and charge all mistakes to the report¬ 
ers.” 

Pa and Ma had not left the hotel when Mortell and 
the detective arrived. In fact such a thought was farthest 
from their minds. 

“Why, the manager is real clevah, sah,” Pa assured 
Mortell. “Raised in Massachusetts. Knew our name 
well — Strong, yes Major Strong is my name — it’s an old 
name down East, ever since the Mayflower landed, yes 

[146] 



Pa and Ma and Etta 


sah, — thank you, sah; and do you know he conducted me 
personally through the kitchen and insisted upon my show¬ 
ing the chef how we fix a lobster down home, and if you 
will pardon me, this is a wonderful hotel, and dinner will 
be served right here in our own apartments, directly.” 

The detective consulted his watch and whispered, 
“It’s only an hour and a half since he began ordering.” 
The detective was having the time of his life. 

The Major drew the attorney aside. “We don’t care 
a thing about that blackguard, Carson; but we intend to 
reward the poor student. I’ll see to it that he gets nicely 
started in his profession.” 

That’s very generous,” Mortell declared, “but this 
Carson might still be in Chicago.” 

The Major shook his head. “No chance at all. I’ve 
looked into that, ran through the entire directory, sah, and 
the manager, Mr. Jones — knows us well — has never 
heard of such a man.” 

“But he may have an alibi,” Mortell suggested. 

The Major was discouraged. “In that event, we could 
not hope to identify him among nearly three million people.” 

“Men of his type generally betray themselves, sooner 
or later,” Mortell argued. “I believe we shall apprehend 
him yet.” 

“But I shall not permit my daughter to appear against 
him.” The Major was very emphatic. “She has suffered 
humiliation enough; we all have, and it is not necessary. 
We insist upon rescuing the poor student, but farther than 
that, there is a limit beyond which no man with a name like 
ours would be willing to go. Now, how long before we 
can have the student here, do you calculate? I have some 

[i47] 



The Man With the Face 


building to do orl my farm, another barn, and I’ll have to 
be there, myself.” 

Mortell calculated that it would take a very short 
time. “But you have friends in Chicago. Naturally they 
will expect a visit.” 

“Oh, yes, the Collins’. Knew us down East. John 
Collins and my father met in Harvard. We shall call upon 
them to-morrow. So they are friends of yours? Well, 
well, pretty clevah. 

“Ma,” he shouted at the top of his voice; “Ma,” 
again, a little impatiently, and “Ma” came on the run. 
“Pa counts after all,” Mortell chuckled to himself. “Ma, 
Mr. Mortell is a friend of the Collins’,” the Major an¬ 
nounced. 

“That’s grand, just grand,” Ma agreed. “We are all 
friends, do you hear, Etta? We are all friends.” 

Etta heard and nodded her approval. Mortell ob¬ 
served her more closely. She was a timid, little being with 
a peculiar type of beauty; and intelligent enough, but any¬ 
one could see that it would require a radical change to win 
her back to an interest in life. 

Dinner put an end to his reflections. The detective 
was right. The Major could talk and eat . 


[148] 




CHAPTER XVII. 


Mortell Thinks 

M ORTELL enjoyed the dinner. It was nearly ten 
before the Major would permit him to depart. 
Their meeting brought mutual admiration. “No 
wonder the Major is somewhat narrow,” Mortell mused. 
“Anyone who has lived all these years in a village of three 
hundred descendants of witch chasers would be narrow. 
A few hours with Bellamy will bring the old boy up to 
date.” 

Mortell was very anxious to communicate with Helen 
Verban—the detective would take care of Doctor Gordon 
— and he lost no time in calling her on the first telephone 
he could find. 

“I had planned to see you this evening,” he told her, 
“upon business”— he heard her laugh, these business meet¬ 
ings had become frequent —“but was unavoidably detained. 
No, not like our business at all — but listen. Our case, 
you know what I mean, is cleared up entirely. We have 
made a ten strike. I’ll explain in the morning.” 

Mortell bade the detective good night and rushed to 
his office, and locked himself in. He was beginning to realize 
what this abrupt ending of such a protracted mystery meant. 
It was so simple and sudden and just what he expected. 
Of course Standing was the man. 

“So the Major says he does not care about this Carson 
or Standing,” he repeated to himself. “Well, the Major 

[i49] 



The Man With the Face 




may not have the whole say and might be persuaded to 
change his mind. He is not so stubborn as he thinks he is.” 

He pushed himself back from the table like a man who 
makes a sudden discovery. There was his own future to 
consider, and Standing entered into that. Just at the 
moment, Standing seemed to be nearly all of it. 

“I must go slow,” he said, talking aloud. “Perhaps 
the Major and I are more in accord than I thought. The 
instant Standing ceases to fear me, he will tell everything 
he knows.” 

Then Etta appeared and Helen Verban and the smirk¬ 
ing face of Standing and the despairing conviction that 
honor and his own desire led to diametrically opposite 
directions. He leaned upon the desk and pressed his 
temples with both hands. That little trick always helped 
clear his brain. There must be a way to bring these roads 
together. He must find a way. Immediately an hundred 
wild schemes rushed through his mind. 

“I’ve found it,” he whispered, almost overcome by the 
product of his own reasoning, for the right to live in his 
own way was at stake; and he was beholding his whole 
future, determined at last that it should be as he, alone, 
master of his own destiny, should solemnly decree. Astir 
with new energy, he telephoned to Bellamy and learned 
that he was expected home within a half hour. 

“Good, my unfailing friend, I shall beat you there,” 
he assured himself. “If I mistake not, we are to transact 
some business that shall afford pleasure to both of us.” 

Bellamy found him upon his return in full possession 
of the den. “Wow, but you look serious and solemn to¬ 
night,” he exclaimed. “What’s amiss?” 

“If my memory serves me right, you have, at 

[150] 


rare 




Mortell Thinks 


intervals, manifested some interest in the study of Spiritual¬ 
ism.” 

Bellamy assumed a graver air. “So you come for a 
seance?” 

Mortell refused to joke. “Please inform me just 
what your accomplishments might be in this direction.” 

Bellamy looked up incredulously and realized that the 
question was put with earnest intent. 

“I have perfected a system of table tapping that sur¬ 
prises my friends and affords me much amusement. I have 
been thinking of doing a little stunt in the house for our 
own entertainment, you know.” 

Mortell took a deep breath. “Now, Fred, on the 
square, do you believe you could make it interesting and 
just a little gruesome, let us say?” 

“I cannot promise to make it interesting but I can 
promise to make it gruesome. I have some excellent 
papier-mache figures that would make old Hippocrates him¬ 
self look a second time.” 

Mortell was as sober as ever. “How soon can you 
give the show?” 

Bellamy was becoming interested himself. “In two 
days if necessary.” 

Mortell settled back in his chair with evident relief. 
“Go ahead. Spare no expense and do your best.” 

Before Bellamy could think of a question, Mortell 
related briefly the story of the day’s development. “I have 
some original ideas concerning retribution,” he explained. 
“Society is still conducted upon the old and delightful 
principle of ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ 
It demands of Standing that he pay the just penalty of 
his crimes. My plan also includes this happy consummation. 

[151] 




The Man With the Face 


I propose, after the proper measure of suggestion, in an 
atmosphere which I shall expect your art to make effective, 
to suddenly confront our friend, Standing, with the woman 
whom he thinks he has murdered.” 

Bellamy looked at his friend a second time. “This is 
something new to you. I can hardly believe you are in 
earnest. It’s cruel, man. The scene ought to be dramatic 
enough but it’s dangerous and his humiliation will be ex¬ 
treme.” 

Mortell was not dissuaded at all. “I had begun to 
believe,” he said in a quietly reminiscent manner, “that 
Standing is a dope fiend. That makes a coward of the 
bravest man. Now I know it is his conscience, the thought 
that he has taken human life, that saps his courage.” 

“It must be Hell,” Bellamy agreed. “Don’t you think 
it is enough? Standing has plenty to answer for besides 
this crime. He is not going to escape. Don’t you think 
we had better leave him out of our show?” 

Mortell shook his head emphatically. “Not after 
seeing Etta. You will agree with me when you see her. 
She must have her revenge.” 

“You are strong for revenge to-night. What’s in you, 
anyway?” 

“The face of Etta,” Mortell enigmatically rejoined, 
“and a few other things more personal. I’m more or less 
of a theorist. You will understand better after the show. 
Meanwhile, my chief concern is to keep the principal actors 
apart. Mrs. Collins ought to be able to manage that.” 

“It’s all right, old chap,” Bellamy agreed. “I have 
enough confidence in your judgment to undertake any com¬ 
mission, however mysterious it may be.” 

[152] 




Mortell Thinks 


Mortell looked up in surprise. “I am going to lift the 
veil pretty soon, old man. I am as tired of our secret v 
you are.” 

Bellamy’s red face instantly took on a redder hue. “I 
beg your pardon, old fellow. I said more than I intended. 
I was not thinking of our arrangement at all.” 

Mortell’s eyes softened. “I would never misjudge 
you, Fred. I know you too well. I was thinking from my 
own point of view anyway. Have you ever thought how 
big a job it is to carry a secret all alone? I don’t want to 
do it. I’ll lose my mind if I don’t tell you. Only I want to 
tell you in my own way and time. It will not hurt you nor 
any one else. Standing knows. If I can silence him”— he 
arose and walked aimlessly about the room with his hands 
upon his temples. Suddenly he stopped walking, his hands 
dropped to his side, and his eyes were full of appeal. 
“When I explain everything to you, Fred, you will under¬ 
stand why I cannot permit Standing to ruin all my plans. 
So you see, once more I come with unreasonable demands 
upon your patience.” 

Bellamy would not have it that way. “I have never 
found you unreasonable nor your plans anything but pleas¬ 
ant and profitable to me. The show goes on, Old Chap, 
and we must hurry or the cops will get Standing with the 
rest of the gang before we can entertain him.” 

Mortell was startled. “As soon as that?” he asked 
incredulously. 

“It won’t be a week.” 

“I wonder if Standing suspects it?” 

“Absolutely no. I met him to-day, strutting about, 
cockier than ever.” 

Mortell was silent for a few minutes. “That’s just 
[i53] 



The Man With the Face 


the trouble,” he said. He went up to his friend and caught 
him by the shoulders. 

“Look here, Fred, if Standing is arrested, I’ll leave 
Chicago before he has a chance to talk. There are two 
ways to shut him up: kill him or help him escape. I favor 
the second method. Will you kindly tip the police that he 
will be here on the night of our entertainment? Arrange 
to have a couple of men on guard. If necessary we can 
postpone the show until the police are ready. I want to 
settle things at one stroke.” 

After so many surprises, Bellamy was prepared for 
anything. “My part will be easy enough but your own — 
will it not be a bit risky?” 

Mortell’s jaw set with a snap. “Leave it to me. I 
know Standing, and I believe I know the police.” 


[i54] 




CHAPTER XVIII. 


Standing Sees a Ghost 

T HE Major found himself in a position that was trying 
in the extreme. He had scarcely dressed, next morning, 
when the telephone rang and Mrs. Collins announced 
that she and her husband were coming at once with their 
limousine to bring him and family home. Naturally he 
was delighted by such forcible and unsolicited hospitality, 
but the hotel people had won his heart and he thought he 
ought to remain another day at least. 

Massachusetts is a long way from Chicago and the 
Major was a thorough geographer. By the time he reached 
the big Collins’ residence, he was still, figuratively speaking, 
within the borders of his own state; but he soon dis¬ 
covered, literally speaking, that he and Ma and Etta were 
thoroughly at home in this big mansion, long before his 
account of their journey was anywhere near completion. 
In a day, he forgot all about the important barn in Massa¬ 
chusetts; and calculated that he would be ready to inspect 
the Armory within a week. 

Meanwhile, Bellamy was not idle and invitations were 
sent out for an “Evening of Something Different.” A few 
minutes after Standing received his, Mortell. telephoned 
to learn if he might call for him with his new car. 

“I’ve got a foreign pet,” he explained, “and the fanci¬ 
est chauffeur in America. You’ve probably seen him driving 
my predecessor.” 


[i55] 


The Man With the Face 


“Who, the nigger?” Standing exclaimed impulsively. 

“Yes, big Mose. He thinks he went with the prac¬ 
tice.” 

“Ah, ha,” Standing ejaculated with his hand over the 
mouthpiece, “who’s afraid now?” He asked a few ques¬ 
tions about the new machine, and gracefully accepted the 
invitation. 

He sat down with a look of profound disgust upon 
his face. “What a damned fool I’ve been,” he told himself. 
He spent a day miserable with self censure, but nearly 
persuaded himself that Mortell was more of a coward and 
a better bluffer than he was. 

So in due time, Mortell’s big limousine stopped at the 
door of Standing’s apartments and big Mose, in all his 
mulatto grandeur, sat immobile at the wheel. No one was 
embarrassed. Mortell was as volatile as a school boy, Mose 
saw nothing but the road ahead, and Standing took his 
seat with dignity unfeigned. 

The house was rather dark. Bellamy, astonishingly 
serious, met his guests at the door. “An evening with 
the Spirits,” he laconically announced, leading his friends, 
without another word, into the library and setting the 
example to them by quickly donning a white cowl and 
dabbing his face with powder. 

“We look like a band of spooks all right,” one of 
the ladies observed with a shiver. 

Bellamy made a warning sign. “Spirits are very' 
sensitive,” he cautioned. “Let us be silent, undemonstrative, 
and sympathetic.” 

No one said a word but there was no doubt of their 
interest. 

“Follow me,” he commanded. Bellamy had re- 
1156 ] 




Standing Sees a Ghost 


modeled an ancient dwelling. A hall ran the whole length 
of it. At the end, an old style combination freight and 
passenger elevator had not been removed. He halted 
them at the door. Lights were turned on. Above and 
upon both walls were scores of nude infants, painted life 
size. 

“This is birth — the beginning,” he explained; and as 
they moved in silence, they noted that they were gradually 
ascending and the mural decorations typified life expanding 
into childhood and adolescence, and with every step, the 
light was brighter. There was the triumph of man at his 
zenith; and then, beginning to descend, with dimming lights, 
appeared sickness and sorrow, disgrace and crime, and at 
last the allegory of fatal illness and serious accidents, with 
an invisible door swinging shut behind them, crowding them 
together into total darkness, and a fall which was broken 
by some mechanical contrivance, and a chorus of shrieks 
from the women and expressions of surprise from the men. 

“This is death — the end.” A door suddenly opened 
and let in the cool damp air and a light phosphorescence 
showing them a miniature cemetery with life sized bodies 
of the dead, resting in open graves. 

“This man died of senility,” Bellamy explained, halt¬ 
ing his followers at the first grave. 

“This man of acute illness,” at another. “Observe 
the signs. 

“This man was struck by lightning. 

“This man hanged. You cannot miss the expression 
of guilt. There is no deceit in the grave.” 

Although done on a small scale, the effect was real¬ 
istic. The ladies kept close to one another. Only fat 
Jack Osborne could smile. Standing, under an exterior of 

[i57] 



The Man With the Face 


unconcern, was plainly nervous. Bellamy caught him at the 
psychological moment. 

“Look, Standing, this poor girl was stabbed to death.” 

The effect was startling. Standing drew back in terror; 
but Bellamy, purposely oblivious to his guest’s discomfiture, 
quietly continued his calm recital. 

“See that extreme pallor, that indescribable yearning 
in her face. That’s air hunger.” 

Standing clutched at his own throat. He was swaying 
like a drunken man, finding it difficult to breathe. “Let up, 
you devil,” he hissed. He wheeled about as if to escape. 
Every eye was upon him and he realized what a show he 
was making of himself. One limp hand went to his heart. 
Bellamy caught him about the shoulders. 

“Go on, don’t mind me,” he stammered. “I’ve got a 
rotten heart — smoking too much again, but I’m all right 
now. Pardon me, please.” He threw out his chest and 
deliberately looked at the figure again. “Stabbed, you say? 
That’s an interesting study, indeed.” 

Bellamy apologized for seemingly having singled him 
out and Standing forced a laugh. “It’s my treat, all right; 
and I will be satisfied if you all forget my weakness.” 

“Very well, friends,” Bellamy resumed as though 
nothing unsual had occurred, “you have made the voyage 
of life and have looked upon the last of mortal man. Tell 
me, is there to be no answer to this question that we are 
asking and everyone has asked since the dawn of Creation 
— what comes after death?” 

He paused for an answer. 

“No one has come back to tell us,” Mortell was bold 
enough to reply. 

Bellamy was flattered. “I knew someone would say 
[158] 




Standing Sees a Ghost 


that. I expect to convince you that they do come back. 
Let us leave this gruesome and hopeless scene.” 

He led his guests next into a pleasantly furnished, 
well lighted apartment. A big soft rug covered the floor. 
The air was full of sweet odors. Rich draperies and 
cabinets and crystals of many hues were everywhere. The 
general effect was restful. 

Bellamy selected the first sitters and Standing was 
too self conscious to refuse the invitation. “I have invited 
you,” Bellamy explained, “because I wish to share some 
good things with you. I have arranged the preliminary 
journey because I believe that allegory is more convincing 
than argument. I have long been a student of psychic 
phenomena. I approached the study with a full share of 
doubt but hoped for conviction, nevertheless. It has come. 
I expect to prove, as I said before, that the spirit of man 
has come back, and does come back and will come back to 
us — to-night.” 

He looked inquiringly at Standing. Standing was 
almost offended. “Show me,” he peremptorily challenged. 

“I am like Standing,” Mortell declared. “I, too, am 
interested in psychic phenomena but never have found any¬ 
thing to alter my skepticism. There is so much deception. 
Permit me to illustrate. 

“An Irish friend was very fond of relating a ghost 
story. During his youth, he and his pal attended a country 
dance, one Winter’s night. The house was near a cemetery 
and not far from town where a large insane asylum was 
located. 

“After the dance, the talk drifted to ghosts and allied 
subjects. In a fit of bravado, his pal announced that he 
would stand upon the highest grave and make a speech to 

[i59] 



The Man With the Face 


the dead, provided his friends would go as far as the fence 
to witness his effort. 

“Nothing could have been more agreeable. The crowd 
halted at the fence while he made his way among the 
mounds and mounted the highest one. ‘Let the dead arise, 
he shouted, lifting his arms far above his head in a dramatic 
attitude. Outside, stood the quiet watchers. They had 
been regaled with the rarest morsels of spook lore. The 
night was only light enough for them to see. 

“Once more the orator lifted his arms and repeated 
the challenge; and immediately with the sound of the clank¬ 
ing of chains, a figure slowly arose at his side, covered 
with frost and snow, moaning and groaning. There was 
a chorus of frightened cries from the outside, and the brave 
youth dropped speechless to the ground. 

“A little later, when morning came, a few of the more 
venturesome young men went to the cemetery and found 
their companion — cold — dead.” 

The ladies gave expression to their terrified feelings, 
and Mortell hurriedly concluded. 

“I mentioned an insane asylum. My friend never does. 
There was a patient there — an old lady with an incurable 
mania for running away. At times, the attendants put 
chains on her. She managed to escape, that night, chains 
and all. She was sleeping by the grave when the young 
man’s challenge to the dead awoke her.” 

Although the tale added to the atmosphere, Bellamy 
showed plainly enough that he did not welcome such a long 
illustration. He briefly explained the manifestations of 
spirits by table tapping. The lights were lowered and the 
seance began. 

First came the spirit of an old man asking for Mortell. 

[160] 




Standing Sees a Ghost 


Much of the conversation was unintelligible to the others 
but the attorney was greatly impressed. “At some more 
opportune time,” Mortell suggested, “I shall tell you how 
this man died with my name on his lips. He has explained 
things that Bellamy or anyone else could not know. What 
shall we say of it?” He looked about him questioningly. 
”1 wish Mrs. Collins were here; she is so skeptical and 
ready to explain.” 

“They have company,” Bellamy replied, but will be 
here before long. They promised me.” 

“Company?” someone echoed. 

“Yes, Major and Mrs. Strong from some little burg 

in Massachusetts.” # 

Standing gave a start. Bellamy noticed it. “I believe 
you are a native of that state, Mr. Standing. Do you 
happen to know the Strongs? Their daughter was mur¬ 
dered in Chicago a few years ago. That may have some¬ 
thing to do with their delay but they appeared anxious to 
come. They telephoned, this afternoon, that they were 
coming but would be late.” 

Standing was receiving altogether too much attention 
for his own comfort. “Sorry,” he tartly replied, “but I 
imagine the Strongs are about the only people in Massa¬ 
chusetts that I never met.” 

Bellamy laughed good naturedly. “Serves me right, 

old chap.” i i r 1 

Many other spirits appeared — some with helprui 

messages, some disappointing. Standing was becoming 
restless. Finally he arose from his chair. “I’ve got to go, 
he declared rather awkwardly. “I had almost overlooked 
a very important engagement.” 

[161] 



The Man With the Face 


One of the ladies laughed. “Wait, Mr. Standing,” 
she teased. “Perhaps there’s a spirit for you, too.” 

Standing was annoyed but helpless. “Sure, old man,” 
Bellamy agreed. “Let’s ask them.” 

Standing could do nothing but sit down again. 

The table became very active. “There’s a spirit call¬ 
ing for Charles Carson,” Bellamy announced, turning 
apologetically to Standing. 

Standing made no effort to conceal his feelings. “This 
is ridiculous. I have had enough,” he snarled, tearing the 
hateful regalia from his body and making for the door. 
Had he known what was on the other side, he would have 
been in no such hurry. The conspirators knew. They 
had been playing for this exit since a half hour. 

There was the sound of scurrying footsteps beyond that 
arrested the hurrying man in his tracks, someone lowered 
the lights; and the door opened wide upon a group of white 
faced, spooky looking beings, with a strange, timid, little 
creature, whiter than the rest, shrinking back against the 
ample form of Mrs. Collins, in terror of the big, staring, 
shaking man, directly before her. 

Then many things happened all at the same time. 
Standing swaying helplessly about, made a wild effort to 
cover his eyes and fell senseless to the floor. A tall, stiff, 
military figure with iron grey hair and beard leaped upon 
the prostrate man and clutched his throat. Bellamy and 
Mortell dashed forward and pulled him off. One of the 
ladies fainted. 

“What’s wrong, Major?” Bellamy asked. 

The Major straightened up in anger and resentment. 
“It’s Carson,” he roared—“the scoundrel who ruined my 

[162] 




Standing Sees a Ghost 


home and tried to murder my little girl. What’s he doing 
here?” 

“It must be a mistake,” Bellamy replied, hopefully. 

“Mistake?” the Major shouted. “Mistake?” He 
looked around upon all these strange, hostile people and 
shook his head. His manner suddenly changed. “Mis¬ 
take ?” he repeated. There was something intensely pathetic 
in his speechless agony. “I only wish it were. I have 
prayed never to see that man again. It is my duty to kill 
him.” 

He had a chair in his hands. Only Mortell’s quick 
action prevented a tragedy. “Restrain yourself, Major,” 
he pleaded. “We are men of the law, you and I. This is 
Carson. The law of the land, the law which you and I 
help make, will save us the necessity of punishing him.” 

The Major bowed his head and leaned upon the arm 
of Bellamy. Mrs. Collins had cleared the room of the other 
guests. At the door, the Major turned around. 

“I have changed my mind, Mr. Mortell,” he declared 
with the return of his usual dignity. “We shall appear 
against this criminal. Depend upon it, absolutely.” 

Standing still lay on the floor. His heart was beating 
regularly. Mortell, sole guard, knew it was not a bad 
heart but a bad conscience that put him there. Standing 
had seen a ghost. 




CHAPTER XIX. 


A Short Cut to the Right Road 

M ORTELL shook his victim vigorously. Standing 
groaned, moved uneasily, and opened his eyes. 
They swept about the room in a wild stare until 
they came to the door. He raised his head, every sense 
alert, in fearful fascination. Almost reluctantly he looked 
farther and saw Mortell. A shaking hand slid over his 
heart and his head dropped heavily to the floor. He was 
making the best showing possible but could not deceive him¬ 
self. The door was there and he could not keep his eyes 
from it. He pressed against them with all his might and 
rolled upon his face. 

Mortell leaned over him. “That’s for this blow on 
my head and your attacks upon defenceless women,” he 
hissed. 

The old Standing was not entirely gone. Ten years of 
lawlessness were not to be snuffed out by one shock. He 
glared back defiantly at his tormentor. “What hell hole 
have you got me into, you and your mob?” he snarled. 
Mortell laughed mockingly. 

“Do you believe in ghosts, you big bully — do you?” 
he demanded. 

Standing did. “Oh, my God,” he groaned, “are you 
ever going to quit? You have shown me up, disgracefully. 
What do you want?” 

[164] 



A Short Cut to the Right Road 


His question answered itself, and drove his eyes to the 
fateful door. He raised himself half erect. “Is she there?” 
he asked, forgetting everything else. “Did you see her? 
Did they all see her?” 

Mortell shook his head. 

“Of course not. She’s dead. You murdered her.” 

Standing dared not open his eyes. He raised himself 
and held up his hands in a mute plea for mercy. 

“There were people there in the doorway. Were there 
no people there? Did you see any people there?” 

“I saw Major Strong and his wife and Mr. and Mrs. 
Collins.” 

“But Etta? I thought I saw Etta. Tell me I saw her. 
Tell me.” Mortell knew there was something besides fear 
in the appeal. “Tell me I saw her,” he begged. “Make me 
believe I saw her. I am a coward. I have had the fear of 
this thing in my heart so long. Make me believe I saw her 
alive. Can’t you do it?” 

A great wave of sympathy and a happiness that he 
never dreamed of came to Mortell. For a moment he was 
startled himself. Then he leaned down and lifted the poor 
fellow’s head and let it rest in his own hand. 

“Poor chap,” he said in a soft voice. “What a rotten 
jumble life is after all! What would you say if I tell you 
it was Etta — alive?” 

Standing was crying like a child. “Don’t deceive me. 
Don’t fill me with false hope. I am afraid to believe it. 
Swear. Swear.” 

Mortell raised his right hand though he knew Standing 
was not looking. “It was Etta, alive. I swear it was Etta.” 

Standing sat erect. “Let me have your hand,” he 
begged, half laughing, half crying. “It’s warm,” he 

[165] 



The Man With the Face 


crooned, “thank God, it’s warm, and I am not seeing things, 
and I wasn’t the cause of her death, was I?” 

Mortell stroked his arm. “No, no, poor chap. She is 
alive — as strong and well as ever. Tell me why you started 
and got so deep in crime, a man with your conscience. Come, 
keep your eyes closed; and we will lap back ten years to the 
day you left the University. Tell me. It may make a 
difference. It may make me your friend.” 

Standing arose. “Let me sit in a chair,” he suggested. 
“I am feeling different — better, I guess. I want to look 
back with your eyes. I can see myself standing upon the 
steps of Main Hall. I believe I can answer your question. 

“I went there a poor boy. I was paid well for going. 
I could play football and pitch better than anyone else in 
the school. I was taken into a fraternity and received as an 
equal by men out of my class. That ruined me. My char¬ 
acter was not strong enough for hard work. So I went out 
from Main Hall with my diploma and an empty pocket and 
a head full of false ideas. I would not work for what I 
thought I had a right to expect from the world. My late 
associates did not and why should I? So I began to steal 
and resort to crooked schemes; and every step in the wrong 
direction becomes so much easier that it simply drives one 
along. Then the supposed death of Etta robbed me of my 
physical courage and awakened new criminal tendencies. 
Physical cowardice is a prime requisite for a career of 
crime.” 

Mortell tried his old trick of pressing his temples. 

“What a rotten jumble after all,” he repeated. He 
looked up suddenly. “And now we must be frank with each 
other. You realize your peril. Major Strong is bent upon 
pushing you to the limit. And there is something else you 

[166] 




A Short Cut to the Right Road 


have to answer for. But tell me, what are you going to do 
about me?” 

Standing raised his hand deprecatingly. “I shall bless 
you to the end of my days for you have brought me to the 
end of my torture. Oh, I have been tortured. My seeming 
exterior since you have known me was always made up — a 
part to play, and a difficult one and one that did not deceive 
myself, nor anyone else, it seems. I wish I could go back 
there to the steps of Main Hall again and make a new start. 
Well, I have had my fling. I am a coward no longer and 
will take my medicine. You know why I threatened you. 
That is wiped off the slate. I am going clean — to the pen, 
of course, — but going clean. I shall never do or say any¬ 
thing to trouble you. I am going clean — as clean — as — 
I —can.” 

Mortell was thunderstruck. This transformation of a 
character which he had thoroughly despised into one that 
called for all of his sympathy and for some of his admira¬ 
tion, cleared up, like a flash of lightning, a mass of un¬ 
formed theories and made them real. The world knows 
only a little of its own history. Public opinion rarely dips 
beneath the surface. Men remain in the path of rectitude 
largely because there is no need to leave it. He was con¬ 
vinced that had Standing gone to a poor man’s college and 
earned his way by waiting upon the table at a restaurant, 
for instance, he would not now be a problem for the officers 
of the law. 

At that instant, Bellamy burst into the room. 

“We are in a devil of a pickle,” he shouted, “with a 
plain clothes cop planted on the front steps and the folks 
just beginning to have a little fun upstairs.” 

Mortell laughed. “Do they know about it?” he asked. 

[167] 




The Man With the Face 


Bellamy was embarrassed. The scene was not what he 
had expected. He turned anxiously from Mortell to Stand¬ 
ing. Standing was not the least excited. He sat there with 
his chin resting upon his upturned palm, like a man who 
has just finished a problem of some sort that leaves him 
physically tired and mentally reminiscent. 

“No — eh,” Bellamy drawled, “but confound it, I do.” 

“Go on, tell us all you know,” Mortell said with a 
provoking smile. 

Bellamy looked at Standing again and blurted out 
desperately, “McGinnis has pinched the Fortieth Avenue 
gang, and someone has squealed. No one can leave this 
house now without being seen. We are not to be disturbed 
for a while, but I am sure the Captain will come in due 
time, with a warrant and search the place.” 

“And who might this man be they are so anxious to 
arrest?” 

Bellamy was beginning to feel foolish or angry, he 
hardly knew which. “Oh, hell, Charles Carson, alias 
Standing,” he snapped. “They have been watching him for 
a week. They saw him get into your machine and tracked 
him here. They know he is in the house.” 

Standing turned around wearily and waved his hand. 
“I am ready, Mr. Mortell,” he said undemonstratively. 
“Let me get out as quietly as possible.” 

Bellamy was puzzled. For the first time he seemed to 
grasp the changed situation, but Mortell gave him no chance 
to speak. 

“Look here, Fred,” he said, with characteristic em¬ 
phasis, “if you were making a long journey in a strange land 
and came to a fork in the road and walked along until you 
were about half played out and discovered you had taken 

[168] 



A Short Cut to the Right Road 


the wrong road, would you trudge all the way back and 
begin all over again, or cut across, if someone showed you 
the way?” 

Bellamy was too much interested to quibble. “I’d take 
the short cut, of course.” 

“That’s just it. You could do so on a country road 
but not on life’s road. Society would not permit it, but 
society may be wrong.” 

He pointed to Standing, helpless listener to this strange 
philosophy. “This man is Carson. He has taken the 
wrong road. He understands that thoroughly. He is 
ready to go back and begin all over again. I have decided 
it won’t be necessary. I am going to show him the short 
cut.” 

Bellamy shook his head doubtingly. “I am with you, 
old man; but I don’t see how you are going to do it. You 
have waited too long.” 

Mortell smiled reassuringly. “Not at all, Fred, you 
old chump. It’s the easiest thing in the world; so easy that 
I have to laugh. Standing is going to walk right past Mr. 
Plain Clothes Man, step into my limousine, and drive 
leisurely away. Can you conceive of anything easier?” 

Bellamy was becoming impatient and just a little irri¬ 
table. Mortell had double-crossed him. He had expected 
to secrete Standing somewhere in the house. The walls of 
the old dwelling were very thick and in one room was a 
blind fireplace which Bellamy, by heroic efforts, converted 
into a door with concealed hinges. Behind it the space in 
the walls would permit a man a wide range of movement; 
and he could live there, if necessary, for some time with 
some degree of comfort. Mortell encouraged all this effort 
and now — what was he up to anyway ? 

[169] 



The Man With the Face 


“It would be a damned sight easier,” Bellamy finally 
exploded, “if it weren’t so light.” 

“All the better,” Mortell obstinately declared. 

Bellamy shook his head again. “Have your own way, 
but you had better get busy. The Major is all right so far. 
I put him wise to the cop on the steps, and he thinks it is 
pretty clever. In fact, he is so well pleased with the ar¬ 
rangement that he has decided not to spoil the evening for 
the other folks by discussing the affair any farther; and the 
other folks are decent enough to respect his wishes; but —” 

“What are they all doing?” Mortell interrupted. 

Bellamy looked rather fooilsh. “Tangoing, of course; 
but I was trying to tell you that the Captain may be here 
before you are ready for him.” 

“Thanks for the suggestion, Fred. I am glad you are 
not sore. I wanted to surprise you. Please send Mose in 
at once with the suit case I sent over this morning.” 

“I’ll send Mose if I can locate him. He has been run¬ 
ning in and out and racing the limousine up and down the 
street all evening.” 

Mose, however, was not hard to find and entered 
promptly with the bulging suit case. 

“How is your friend on the steps?” Mortell asked 
with a wink. 

“Easier than a roosting chicken,” Mose chuckled. “I 
ran an errand for him, gave him a handful of cigars and a 
bottle, and he’s ashamed to look at me now. ’Fraid I might 
think he’s a cheap skate, I reckon. He won’t ask no ques¬ 
tions. I done went out by the back way twice and fixed the 
cop there, too. He’s used to me now.” 

Mortell turned to Standing who sat there, a passive 
[170] 



A Short Cut to the Right Road 


spectator, but sustained by the faith which he could not 
help but feel in this new and resourceful friend. 

“We are pressed for time but I want to clear up all 
possible misunderstanding between us before we separate. 
For some time I have been aware of the danger that threat¬ 
ened you. I knew to-night was set for the raid by the police. 
I am responsible for this rather startling and dramatic en¬ 
counter with your former wife. I have been working dili¬ 
gently on this case. I sought revenge for myself and others 
whom you wronged. I declare now it is my firm conviction 
that I have been anything but charitable in my estimation of 
your character. I agree with you that everything depends 
upon the start. 

“Now understand me. So far everything has hap¬ 
pened according to my anticipations. I had planned to help 
you to get away for purely selfish reasons. I am anxious 
now to do so for a better reason. But tell me, do you care 
to escape?” 

Standing looked at him deliberately, squarely in the 
eye. His face flushed a bit but he was very positive. “Yes, 
I would like to have another chance to make good,” he 
quietly affirmed. 

Mortell’s jaws came together with a snap. “And you 
shall have it. My plans are not the impulse of the moment. 
They demand some inconvenience or hardships, rather. Do 
you trust me?” 

“I don’t understand you but I do trust you implicitly. 
That’s the reason I’m not asking questions.” 

Mortell opened the suit case and a bundle of clothing 
and other articles rolled upon the floor. “Come, Mose, 
let’s get to work,” he commanded. 

The three of them worked by a common instinct. 

[171] 



The Man With the Face 


Standing shaved his own moustache while Mose clipped his 
hair. Mortell filled a basin with a black liquid. 

“A dermatological friend prepared this,” he said. 
“He worked on it a couple of days before striking the right 
shade. It’s for your face and hands. Now shut your eyes 
and don’t be stingy. Soap and water will not touch it.” 

Standing obeyed without a word and Mose mopped 
the clipped hair with another black concoction and worked a 
fine comb back and forth with such rapidity that it left a 
wonderful kink — a perfect duplication of his own. A pair 
of small spring wires slipped into the nostrils widened them 
without discomfort. Two artificial gums everted the lips 
and made them appear thicker; and shortly, where there 
had been two white men and one colored chauffeur, there 
appeared only the attorney and two colored chauffeurs, so 
nearly alike as to easily pass for twins. 

Standing was given no time for reflection. “A bold 
man,” Mortell said, “can enter a den of untamed lions or 
pass safely through a hostile mob, provided he holds his 
head up and looks straight ahead. Mose has been coming 
and going so often that no one pays any attention to him, 
and no one will pay any attention to you because you will be 
taken for Mose. You will probably meet no one until you 
come to the porch. The policeman will hardly look at you 
and if he does, have no fear.” He gave Standing a mirror 
and Standing was instantly convinced. 

“Step into my automobile and drive to Twelfth Street 
and Ashland Avenue. Leave the machine on the corner. 
Be sure to have the lights turned on. This is your next 
destination,” handing him a small business card. “Don’t 
be in too great a hurry and take a circuitous route. Spend 
a half hour in some convenient Colored neighborhood. 

[172] 



A Short Cut to the Right Road 


Enter this little drug store — it is open all night — as a 
casual customer. If no one sees you so much the better. If 
there should be anyone but the clerk there, buy a cigar and 
sit down and smoke it. You are expected and will be taken 
care of. Say nothing until you are spoken to. 

“Meanwhile, Mose will leave this house by way of the 
alley and recover the automobile and drive back. When 
once you have passed through the little drug store, you are 
safe. What will come then, I leave to your imagination 
to picture. Mandell went that way.” 

Like a flash the whole scheme came to Standing and he 
looked as intelligent as his new guise would permit. “No 
one but a genius could have thought of this,” he said en¬ 
thusiastically. 

“Thank you. When you are ready to go from there, 
ample funds will be provided — ample enough to take you 
anywhere and give you a practical start.” 

Standing made a gesture of protest. “That is too 
much. I — ” 

“Take it as a loan if you will, but take it you must. 
There are wonderful opportunities in South America for a 
man with your knowledge of Spanish and your general edu¬ 
cation and natural ability and a little ready money. Now 
you had better be going. Write when you have found your¬ 
self. And may God be with you always.” 

Standing seemed unwilling to speak the last word. 
Even the stain on his face could not hide his emotion. He 
bowed his head and raised both hands in an attitude of 
veneration. 

“I cannot tell you how I feel. I am too full of shame 
and my own guilt. You have given me the privilege of be¬ 
coming a man. No one else could do it. 

[i73] 



The Man With the Face 


“There is a safe in my apartments with money in it 
that does not belong to me. Mrs. Collins’ necklace is there 
also. That knife — pardon me for telling this — did not 
belong to me. I don’t know where Etta got it. It was her 
own act, but I drove her to it and accepted the blame. To¬ 
night, I have been thinking of my promises to my mother. 
God have mercy upon me and bless you forever.” 

Before Mortell could reach his hand he was gone. 


An hour later, Mortell strolled leisurely upstairs. 

“Where in the world have you been all this time?” 
Mrs. Collins demanded, rushing up to him. 

“Who — I?” he repeated, rubbing his eyes. “Why, 
I’ve been asleep, I guess.” 

“Asleep?” she echoed, “and what did you do with that 
terrible Carson or Standing as he called himself? Mr. 
Bellamy told us you were putting him through the Third 
Degree and Mose was standing guard until the officers 
could get here.” 

“Well, I’ll be darned. That’s cheerful of friend 
Bellamy. He has altogether too much confidence in my 
ability. It’s a fine slam on me, isn’t it? Do you know, that 
devil must have drugged me. I remember telling Mose to 
take the machine and give some of his colored friends an 
airing. I was drowsy the last time he came and I suppose 
he thought I was drunk — but Carson — where is he?” 

Mrs. Collins was dumbfounded. “Why, don’t you 
know?” she stammered. 

Mortell yawned and rubbed his eyes again. “Lord, 
no,” he replied with provoking stupidity. “Don’t you 
folks know?” 

[i74] 



A Short Cut to the Right Road 


Bellamy was terribly embarrassed. Everyone talked 
at once. Someone telephoned to the police, another rushed 
to the street and shouted for help. The plain clothes men 
were invited to search the house, and a detail of uniformed 
policeman repeated the process, but not a trace of Carson 
was to be found. Many theories were offered to explain 
his escape. The Captain decided he must have made his 
way from a side window in the second story across a trellis 
covered with vines that formed an arbor with the high 
brick wall which separated Bellamy’s yard from his neigh¬ 
bor’s; but he could not forego the pleasure of another dig 
at the plain clothes men. 

“I want to be there when the Chief has his little talk 
with you boys in the morning. He will probably ask if you 
didn’t know there was a yard around this house. 

“But — we will get him yet,” he declared, turning 
around as he followed his men down the front steps. 

“Absolutely,” Mortell agreed with an encouraging 
smile — “not,” he finished under his breath. 


[i75] 





CHAPTER XX. 


The Sick Man 

T O HELP a well known hospital reduce its debt and 
maintain its large number of free beds, a great charity 
concert was to be given in the Auditorium. Famous 
musicians donated their services and, in deference to its 
religious affiliations, the programme was to be concluded 
with an address by a noted and eloquent church celebrity. 

The advance sale was wonderful and some of the 
boxes brought fabulous prices. The night was ideal and the 
house was sold out and many people turned away, but the 
best people of Chicago were there. The programme was 
excellent and went without a hitch until — it came time for 
the Bishop’s address, and the Bishop was not present. Then 
somebody remembered that he had overlooked the Bishop’s 
sudden indisposition. The musicians had left the stage and 
the audience was waiting with tantalizing patience. Some¬ 
thing had to be done and done quickly. It was. A prom¬ 
inent citizen — it happened to be the Mayor himself — 
stepped out upon the stage. 

“One Sabbath afternoon,” he began in a peculiarly 
personal tone, “how many years ago, I hesitate to relate, a 
youth, strolling aimlessly along the main highway of an un¬ 
important little city, found his progress suddenly arrested 
by a mob that swooped down unexpectedly upon him from a 
side street. Less terrified than curious, he caught the arm 

[176] 


The Sick Man 


of an acquaintance and inquired the occasion for so much 
excitement. 

“ ‘Gee, don’t you know?’ his unwilling informant pro¬ 
tested, redoubling his efforts to free himself, ‘that Old 
Bixby has just passed a law to stop baseball on Sunday, and 
the coppers are at the Park?’ 

“Mr. Bixby, it is needless to explain, was a lawyer, 
and active in the law and order ranks. 

“Such is the majesty of the law which, in the blind 
faith of us poor uninformed laymen, can invest even so 
inconspicuous an exponent as this country lawyer with a 
power so fearful and complete. For, Ladies and Gentle¬ 
men; I am the terrified youth of so many Sundays past; and 
when a few minutes ago, I was invited to suggest a sub¬ 
stitute for our eloquent Bishop, denied to us by an illness 
which I am happy to state is not serious, my boyhood’s 
faith and enthusiasm asserted itself again, and I have called 
for the lawyer. 

“The lawyer is here but without a speech or even a 
subject. So I suggested one and he has accepted it: — 
‘The Sick Man.’ I appreciate that to an average individual 
this situation might be one of concern, but not to a lawyer 
— to Chicago’s most resourceful lawyer — Mr. Ralph 
Mortell.” 

Mortell made a magnificent appearance as he faced 
those five thousand cheering people. Helen Verban sat 
with her friends, equally surprised and uneasy. Mortell 
stepped forward nearly to the edge of the stage, composed 
and confident, sweeping the vast throng with unswerving 
black eyes, a splendid, handsome, and brilliant man. He 
caught Helen’s eyes — she knew he was looking for her, 
and no longer doubted his strength. 

[i77] 



The Man With the Face 


He alluded in a few happy words to the extravagance 
of his introduction, making humble apology for the pre¬ 
sumption which brought him there to replace the great 
Bishop. Then he launched into his subject at once. 

“Life is the rainbow of eternity, full of brilliant colors, 
flashing up and out with birth at one end and death at the 
other, each equally mysterious and inconceivable. Although 
we cannot solve the mystery of life, we can hope to learn 
better what to do with it. 

“What is the greatest triumph of the ages? The poet 
answers love, the painter art, and the philosopher our civil¬ 
ization. I am sure the sick man is the greatest triumph of 
the ages. For years, it had been taught that the higher 
development of modern people is due to the sacrifice of the 
weak and the survival of the fittest, and philosophers have 
made of this a social paradox wherein the weakling is con¬ 
demned as being dangerous to the strong. 

“To-day, our medical colleges are full of the science 
of preventive therapeutics. Statisticians teach us that al¬ 
ready life has been lengthened twelve years; and to nurse 
the sick man, to save the babies who once perished from 
improper feeding, and to prolong every possible life is true 
economy for the race. Scientists with big hearts and big 
minds have proven that every second of everybody’s life is 
dependent upon the health and comfort of everybody else, 
and a man in Chicago may not be safe while there are 
dangerous bacteria destroying his brothers on the other side 
of the earth. There is a plant familiar to the gardeners of 
our country which, left alone, droops and withers upon the 
ground, but when planted near another of its kind, the two 
twine their tendrils about each other and rise in sturdy 

[178] 




The Sick Man 


growth, supported by a mutual strength. Man is like that 
plant. 

“Take another lesson from nature if you will. The 
most productive grain, the most beautiful flower, and the 
most luscious fruit are cultivated products, made what they 
are by the hand of man. Is this the survival of the fittest? 
Can you say that Burbank, the wizard of growing things, 
produces the survival of the fittest? Without the hand of 
man, the choicest seed will soon degenerate. This is also 
true of the human species. Prize babies are babies upon 
whom the most painstaking care is lavished. 

“So, to-day, we are, many of us, the best of us, the 
survival of the unfit. Modern medicine is pointing that 
way, and some future physician will convince all the various 
people of this earth of that supreme ideal that the whole 
world is one family. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen: — I am not a physician of 
medicine but dating from the announcement of this subject, 
I intend to hold myself as a physician of the law. For, mind 
you, the law should be curative. There is another sick man 
whom I wish to speak of. A celebrated physician has pro¬ 
nounced his ailments, the ‘Diseases of Society.’ 

“It is but a few years since our pious forefathers tried 
to pound the Devil out of their insane. Now we know it is 
disease and not the Devil who is to blame. To-day some 
of our medical brothers affirm that disease and not the 
Devil is responsible for crime, that crime is due to physical 
infirmities, and is as contagious as any other disease. 

“In the brain of the highest type of man, the seat of 
reason and intelligence is also the seat of inhibition to the 
more purely physical instincts and impulses. The moral 
man is not without criminal instincts but has developed a 

[i79] 



The Man With the Face 


greater power of resisting them. Thus in the great field of 
moral sickness we have need for preventive therapeutics. 
Punishment for crime is not preventive therapeutics. I 
tell you as a lawyer, that if everyone were convicted of a 
first offence and punshed in the usual way, there would be 
fewer law abiding citizens. Boys caught in their first offence 
and thrust into the society of confirmed criminals leave 
prison, shorn of their youthful hope and enthusiasm, bitter 
toward successful men and women, and ambitious only to 
profit by the instruction of their dangerous associates. 

“The cloud of the prison wall seldom breaks. In 
Michigan, not long ago, the sister and brother-in-law of a 
convict were murdered and no clue was discovered of the 
murderer. This convict should have been liberated before 
but, thanks to some delay in the legal machinery of the 
state, was still in prison. Will you deny that had he been at 
liberty, his pernicious past history would have gone far 
toward arousing suspicion and quite likely have convicted 
him of a crime of which he was innocent? 

“Some assert that once started, God Himself is quite 
powerless to change the operation of the laws which His 
Own Hand has created. Then why should we expect more 
of the criminal whose future is foreordained by a bad 
ancestry? Society must accept its share in the guilt of the 
criminal, and a conscience that looks ahead will be the 
greatest protection against a class which we are compelled 
to fear. 

“Opportunity and luck have been the dispute of time. 
Heredity and environment have made two schools among 
scientists. Nevertheless, the position we occupy in life 
depends upon the consent of others. Human life, like the 
brook, becomes stagnant when it ceases to flow. We can 

[180] 




The Sick Man 


not lock ourselves in without locking the world out. We 
are all Pharisees and flatter ourselves. But we are never 
individuals when alone. Mount Everest is only high enough 
to be highest. Great men are only great enough to be 
greater and good men only good enough to be better. 

“One of the features of the San Francisco Exposition 
was a troupe of wonderfully trained lions, whose subjuga¬ 
tion was so complete that they obeyed the slightest nod of 
their trainer. During an evening performance, some acci¬ 
dent in the power house shut off the current; and when the 
lights flashed on again almost immediately, the spectators 
were horrified by the sight of the woman’s body lying 
mangled and lifeless in the midst of thoroughly savage 
beasts. The education of these animals had not provided 
for the turning off of the lights. Can we not apply this 
lesson to our civilization? 

“We have done well in medicine. Let us do better in 
law. We need physicians and hospitals to treat the diseases 
of society. We need quarantine rather than punishment. 
We need some of that hard, common sense which has shown 
the farmer it pays to spend time and money on soil and crop 
improvement, and the live stock grower that it pays to 
breed fine stock. Will the world never learn that it pays to 
raise fine men and women? 

“I beseech you, comfortable ladies and gentlemen, to 
think of the man who is down. It ever he rises, you must 
lift him. You can do it, and it will surely be true economy 
for the race. God has given us the privilege of raising our 
own level. We can change the old law; that ‘the sins of 
the fathers shall be visited upon the sons even unto the 
fourth generation.’ We can do more with ourselves than 
with plants and animals. 

[iBi] 




The Man With the Face 


“When hatred for the wrongdoer gives place to sym¬ 
pathy, this mystery will vanish. Eternal trying will re¬ 
educate and redeem this child in intellect though man in 
stature. Some high minded men and women are working 
for him. The future is hopeful. A greater boon than the 
discovery of anaesthesia or of antisepsis is coming — the 
cure of this other sick man whom we, in our willful obtusion, 
persist in miscalling ‘the criminal.’ ” 


[182] 




CHAPTER XXL 


A Role Incarnate 

H ELEN did not miss a word of Mortell’s speech, 
though some of the time her eyes were full of 
another scene — a stuffy, little court room, crowded 
with curious, unsympathetic, court loungers; and another 
attorney, struggling with a disagreeable lisp, so conscious 
of his own repulsiveness, that he was afraid to look at his 
audience. A very attentive little group sat in her box. 
Occasionally she stole a glance at Bellamy and, now and 
then, she swept the whole auditorium, and knew that those 
five thousand people were taking the speaker at his own 
word and were for him. 

How natural! Wherever he went people were for 
him. Shading her eyes, she sought coolly to analyze the 
source of his magnetism. Was it a splendid physique? a 
strong face? a musical voice? a pose? a trick or artifice of 
the actor? No. These might help but she was sure it must 
be his own confidence in himself; and confidence comes when 
the world permits it; and she was sure the world would 
always be good to him and let him have his own way. 

She thought of her relations with him; and there was 
little chance for philosophy, for where love enters, all cold 
reasoning must leave. Their “business” meetings had be¬ 
come a routine. It was remarkable, the amount of business 
the attorney could think of. Could folks make a business 

[183] 


The Man With the Face 


of love or love of business. Helen smiled self consciously. 
Their business had been love from the first. 

It was quite a time before her crowd could get to 
Mortell, so many people wanted to shake hands with him, 
but finally she had the hero to herself. His triumph seemed 
her own. Bellamy probably suggested something to the 
others. No one was hungry. Osborne had to rush home 
to look up a point of law, the girls had an early date in the 
morning with their dentist, and Bellamy, himself, had to 
discuss something uninteresting with his father, just re¬ 
turned from the southern part of the state. But if there 
were any conspiracy neither Helen nor Mortell realized it. 

It was early Autumn, cool enough to make Mortell’s 
big limousine very comfortable. The night was still. The 
big man at her side kept squeezing Helen’s hand and neither 
spoke. The car was full of the odor of sweet peas; it was 
always there when she rode with him. 

They sat together on a huge divan, the only conscious 
beings in a sleeping household. Mortell began to puzzle 
her right away. He leaned forward resting his elbows upon 
his knees, serious and uncertain. 

“I met more people to-night,” he said, suddenly 
straightening up, “than my predecessor did in all his life.” 

Helen was too surprised to answer. He was his usual 
assertive self again, but there came instantly that frank, 
appealing, boyish light to his eyes that was always there 
when he spoke to her of love. 

“To-night is my night,” he murmured. 

Helen laid her hands upon his shoulders, looking 
straight into his wonderful eyes. “You were splendid. I 
am so proud of you, big man,” she told him. 

[184] 




A Role Incarnate 


He caught a dimpled little hand and pressed it to his 

lips. 

“You must tell me now, you must answer that question 
I asked you so long ago.” 

She drew the big man to her and kissed him upon the 

lips. 

“You big goose,” she laughed, “it was only a few 
weeks ago. You know the answer anyway — because — 
don’t you see how terrible I have been acting if — it — 
were not going to be yes, all the time?” 

He drew her head upon his shoulder. He would not 
trust his eyes. “And if I should tell you that during these 
two years I have lived a lie, and to-morrow must go away 
without a word of explanation to anyone?” 

She surprised him by her calmness. “I would go with 
you,” she said without looking up. 

“Or that, somewhere, in my past, is a stain, perhaps?” 
She turned upon him with incredulous, refusing, eyes. 
“I would look at you as I am looking now, and know it 
could not be.” 

“But if it were?” he persisted. 

She nestled her head again. 

“I would go with you, anyway, anywhere,” she simply 

said. 

His hand tightened on her own. They had gone 
beyond the reach of words and looked dreamingly ahead. 
She was the first to break the silence and her manner was 
startling and aggressive. 

“There is no stain, my big beau, and you have not lived 
a lie during these two wonderful years. You have lived as 
you had a right to live and it’s nobody’s business but your 
own.” 

[185] 




The Man With the Face 


His head came up with a jerk and he pushed himself 
back to the end of the divan. “What — do — you — 
mean?” he asked in unfeigned astonishment. 

“That I’ve known you all the time.” 

“All the time?” he repeated, incredulously. There was 
no denying his disappointment, and he looked so miserable 
that she hastened to assure him. 

“Well, ever since you began making love to me.” She 
forced a laugh. “You were so green, you know, that I was 
sure it could be no one else. You did fool me at first. I 
thought you were an actor, a brilliant young genius, who 
flashed upon the stage, to retire from a regretful public 
when a rich uncle left him four million dollars down in New 
Orleans. The resemblance was striking and your story 
fitted into the idea nicely, but your awful love making 
betrayed you.” 

Mortell only shook his head and sighed. Then two 
plump, little arms stole about his neck. 

“I thought—” he muttered, utterly hopeless, “why — 
everyone will know me, and I’ll have to begin all over 
again.” 

She shook him playfully and ruffled his hair. “Of 
course not, you big goose — because—” now for the first 
time she began to appear concerned, “because you aren’t 
going to make love to anyone else, are you?” 

Her question was magical. He held her from him at 
arm’s length. She was as serious as could be. He laughed 
like a big boy and smothered her with kisses. 

“Do you know what you are?” he finally asked. 

She shook her head wonderingly. 

“You are a real fairy, little girl; and if the price of my 

[« 86 ] 



A Role Incarnate 


security is what you declare it to be, I am going to convince 
you at once that I am safe.” 

“Oh, dear,” she cried as soon as she could get her 
breath, “next time, you must just tell me about it.” 

He caught her again. “That’s just what I can’t do, 
sweetheart. But why didn’t you say something to me?” 

She looked into his deep, black eyes and smiled. “I 
don’t believe many people tell you what you don’t want to 
hear.” 

He shook his head deprecatingly. “Am I that fierce?” 

She looked into his eyes again, fearlessly. “Not fierce, 
my big beau, but so terribly sure of yourself.” She would 
not permit him to demur. “There was another better 
reason. I realized what a splendid thing you were doing. 
I knew it was the only way. I knew it was safe. I was 
interested, too, in watching you play the part with your 
own technique. Never before was there such a play. It 
is as though Edwin Booth were reincarnated into a living 
Hamlet. You are the incarnation of a role. No one will 
question you. Fred Bellamy has seen to that.” 

She hurriedly fashioned a wreath from roses which he 
had, that day, sent her; and placed it upon his head. 

“I salute thee, first actor of all time, who alone hath 
found a part and grown into it, and made it thyself.” 

Not all in play did she say it, and not all in play did he 
receive it. There was a spell upon them — the spell of 
hope and love. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said in a voice of reverence, 
“this is my night. Some other time, we can talk about my 
physical and mental transformation —” 

“Oh, I know more than you think. I was down there 
on the South Side —” 

[187] 



The Man With the Face 


“Did Doctor Gordon —” 

“He didn’t tell me a thing,” she interrupted, “but I 
can see and put a few things together.” 

Mortell was a study of conflicting emotions, among 
which, doubt was ascendant. “That’s just the trouble,” 
he objected. “Others will go down there and see and put 
a few things together.” 

“They will not go there with my eyes,” Helen pro¬ 
tested, positively. “Please do not disappoint me. I know 
you are brave, my big beau. We will be so happy here. 
Just we two, sweetheart.” 

Hope was ascendant again. “I do not want to give 
up,” Mortell assented, “but I — Oh, well, I simply cannot 
explain things to everyone.” 

“No one will ask you a thing,” Helen insisted, stamp¬ 
ing her foot for emphasis, and looking as severe as she 
could. “You can have anything you want here if only you 
go on as you have been, and do not weaken. Now kiss me, 
my big man, and do not talk that way, any more.” 

Helen’s suggestion did the big man much good, and 
his courage mounted with each kiss. “I must see Fred, yet, 
to-night,” he told her, apologetically. “To-night is my 
night. To-morrow, we will know what to do.” 

They marched to the door like two stately players in a 
drama. 

“There will be no unnecessary revelations to an un¬ 
questioning world, my big man,” she insisted. “I know 
Fred will tell you so.” 


[188] 




CHAPTER XXII. 


Mortell Decides to Stay 

M ORTELL found Bellamy in bed. “I’m awfully 
sorry to rout you out, this way, old man,” he 
apologized. 

Bellamy rubbed his eyes, yawned once or twice, and 
smiled. 

“The pleasure is mine, dear chap. I’m sure it’s more 
trouble for you to call than for me to get up.” 

Mortell rubbed his own eyes. Yes, there stood his 
friend in lounging robe and slippers, with his ruddy face 
and inseparable smile as inviting as ever. 

Mortell shook his head helplessly. 

“What’s the matter?” Bellamy asked with some con¬ 
cern. 

“Your philosophy is beyond me, Fred. You are unique 
among men — you never will learn how to complain nor 
forget how to smile.” 

“You are sentimental to-night, old dear.” 

“Perhaps I am, Fred. It has been a wonderful night.” 
Bellamy raised a hand in protest. “The night is only 
beginning, dear fellow, and—” 

He passed to a door. Hamlet lumbered in, almost 
precipitating his master in the effort, knocked a couple of 
chairs over with his expressive tail, and settled down in 
perfect adoration, poking his big, cold nose into Mortell s 
welcoming hand. Bellamy turned around. 

[189] 


The Man With the Face 


“Do you know why I like you, Ralph?” he asked with 
a tender light on his ruddy face. 

“Can’t imagine,” Mortell replied, busy with his 
canine admirer. 

“Because you like my dog. Jack never comes here 
without grumbling about him.” 

Mortell looked up and smiled. “I believe it was 
Mark Twain who said: — ‘The more I see of men, the 
better I like dogs.’ ” 

Bellamy returned directly with a tray loaded down 
with sandwiches and a steaming pot of cocoa. “I never felt 
less like sleeping in all my life, old man. We will have a 
good smoke after this, and a — visit.” 

When they came to the cigars, Hamlet was sleeping 
soundly at the feet of the household’s friend. 

Bellamy drew in a long puff and looked challengingly 
at his companion. “I believe it was General Grant who 
said: — ‘I can’t talk without smoking.’ ” 

Mortell leaned toward him somewhat anxiously. 
“That reminds me. I want you to congratulate me, Fred.” 

“I did. You distinguished yourself again.” 

“Not that. I am going to be married, soon.” 

Bellamy looked very superior as he held out his hand. 
“So am I. So is everybody.” 

“Everybody?” 

“Well, Jack has been taken into the firm and cannot 
stand the raise alone. Margery is ready to try her ‘How to 
keep well’ knowledge on me. Young Doc. is making skads 
of money and Etta has forgotten the past; and—” 

Mortell wrung his host’s hand hard enough to con¬ 
gratulate the three men concerned. Bellamy groaned and 

[190] 



Moriell Decides to Stay 


finished his sentence, “and the barn goes up somewhere in 
Evanston, the Major admitted.” 

After a few small efforts, their conversation ran itself 
out. Mortell sank farther into his chair, pondering over 
something in the cloud of tobacco smoke which he was blow¬ 
ing across his big black cigar. Bellamy knew something 
was coming and waited patiently. 

At last, Mortell arose, turned around uncertainly, and 
began walking about the room, with hands clasped behind 
him and stooping over like a man who is searching for 
words to express himself. Suddenly, he wheeled in front of 
his guest. Bellamy never saw him look that way before. 
There was a new expression on his handsome face, intense 
but uncertain, almost fearful. 

“Fred,” he began with dramatic abruptness, “to-night 
is my night. To-morrow — may not be mine. I have come 
to ask you something just as I did two years ago when you 
took me in and I made you a proposition. The time has 
come for an accounting. Have I made good as I promised 
I would?” 

Bellamy leaped to his feet, dancing about, chuckling, 
slapping his solemn guest on the back, and making the im¬ 
pressive situation appear quite grotesque. “Have you made 
good?” he repeated. “Have you? Why, man, you’ve been 
performing miracles, that’s all.” 

Mortell could not hide his own pleasure but his manner 
changed little as he continued. 

“During these two years, I have been permitted to live 
in my own way. Have you ever considered, Fred, that for 
this privilege, I am indebted solely to you?” 

Bellamy shook his head protestingly. “Nothing of 

[191] 




The Man With the Face 


the kind,” he insisted. “You never needed my boost at all. 
You would get through anywhere, without help.” 

“I know better. The start is everything. I have not 
been loyal to you. I am a conceited ass, that’s what; and 
now I know, when I realize how unnecessary it was, that I 
have insulted your intelligence also.” 

Bellamy tried to stop him. 

“I thought I could fool you —” 

“You surely did, too.” Bellamy seemed easier for the 
admission. “I was sure you were a certain actor turned 
lawyer, until I took the trouble to learn that Mr. Actor was 
still in New Orleans, trying to spend the four millions a rich 
uncle left him; and you know the old truism that a body 
cannot occupy more than one space in a given time.” 

Mortell looked at him challengingly. “But you know 
me now?” 

Bellamy turned redder than ever but managed to 
answer. “I might make a good guess.” 

Mortell dropped dejectedly into a chair. 

“Standing knew me. Helen knew me. You knew me. 
Everyone will see through my thin disguise. How am I 
to set myself right again, after these years of stupid duplic¬ 
ity? I never can face it.” 

Bellamy went over and laid his hands on Mortell’s 
drooping shoulders. 

“Listen to me,” he said. “Your disguise is not thin. 
It just happens to be so thick that no one else is going to see 
through it. People see what they look for. Standing hated 
and feared you. He carried your old likeness with the 
bitter memory of the terrific thrashing you gave him. Helen 
was your old playmate and loved you. Had you come to me 
with any other history than one of my own making — I 

[192] 




Mortell Decides to Stay 


cannot understand yet why you didn’t — had you met me 
incidentally and taken a slower road to my intimacy, I would 
never have questioned your identity.” 

Mortell was taking courage. Indeed, he looked quite 
aggrieved when he asked: — “Why didn’t you say some¬ 
thing? It seems to me you were as deceitful as myself to 
keep silent so long.” 

“Why say anything? Whose business was it but your 
own? Then, I happened to have sense enough to realize 
that there was nothing else for you to do. I gave you credit 
for thinking of it. The boldest stroke is the safest, as you 
have said. The individual is superior to the mob. A mob 
of peccaries will attack a leopard or a lion, but peccaries 
are animals. No mob of men would attack a John L. 
Sullivan, in his prime, without a club or a brick or a shot 
gun, because men look each other in the eye; and no one is 
going to look you in the eye, and ask if you are not some 
one else. Now there is Standing — he cannot look a man 
in the eye. By the way what did you do with him?” 

Mortell studied his friend closely before replying. 

“I sent him to Gordon. The doctor did a good job.” 
His eyes never left Bellamy’s face as he continued with 
greater assurance. “I was wondering if you were trying 
to string me. Do you remember the tall chap who ran into 
you as you were entering my office the other night, and 
you —” 

Bellamy gasped. “You don’t say so.” 

“That was Standing.” 

Bellamy drew a long breath. “Well, I’ll be struck by 
a tornado, some day, and never know it. What did the 
doctor do to him?” 


[i93] 



The Man With the Face 


“Gordon calls it plastic surgery, I believe,” Mortell 
replied, happy at last over his friend’s discomfiture. 

“But Gordon doesn’t make a practice of disguising 
criminals, I hope?” 

“Not at all. I had to beg hard. No, indeed. Gordon 
is on the square. I was his first patient. He is —” 

“Go on. Tell me all about it, about your own case, I 
mean.” 

“Doctor Gordon has written my case up for me in 
scientific language, but I’ll tell it to you in my own words. 
He had dropped a hint once or twice but I never encouraged 
him to go into details. I did not have much faith in his 
surgical ability, anyway. I never dreamed the outcome 
could be what it is. After my encounter with Standing, I 
was ready for anything. My mind was made up while in 
my office after leaving Standing’s apartments. I was sure I 
couldn’t look any worse after Gordon would get through 
with me than before, and the ordeal meant safety for me and 
time to think. 

“The whole thing was simple enough. He employed 
local anaesthesia all through the work and hurt me more 
or less, mostly more. My lower jaw is prominent now, and 
was prominent when that shell came sailing my way in Port 
Arthur. It was fractured, you know. I was about eighteen 
years old at the time so that the jaw was fully formed. 
There was a fibrous union of the bones. Gordon injected 
cocaine inside, freed the ends of the bones, reset them, and 
held them in place with dental splints and wires. It healed 
nicely. Gordon would not allow me to look into a mirror 
until my jaw was solid. It was a wise precaution. It would 
never have held against my excitement. My God, man, how 
it changed my appearance.” Mortell was shaking with 
[194] 



Mortell Decides to Stay 


emotion. “My jaw had been driven onto my neck and now 
I began to look a little like a human being again. 

“The cut in the lip was easier for Gordon than for me. 
I did not take any solid food for two weeks. Gordon used a 
special suture that leaves practically no scar; so you see I 
can keep my hirsute adornment, which I don’t like at all, 
closely cropped. 

“He straightened my nose by working from the mu¬ 
cous surfaces — inside, I mean; no scar to that. If you 
look closely enough, you will observe a little mark behind 
each ear; but the lines are hidden by the natural fold of 
the skin there, and you would have to handle the ears to 
observe them. 

“I gained about twenty-five pounds, which I have not 
been able to get rid of since. That helped to change my 
appearance a little. My eyebrows were somewhat bushy, 
and Gordon removed a couple of rows with the electric 
needle. I was troubled with dandruff, and my hair was 
commencing to thin out. Gordon fixed that. The tonic 
darkens my hair a little. It’s the resorcin, I believe. 

“I put that card in the Journal with honest intentions. 
I had a wonderful scheme — wanted to see what a fellow 
with the proper qualifications could do up here among the 
e lite. I — pshaw! what’s the use of going into that? I am 
filled with shame whenever I think of what I had in mind 
then; but I was bitter against everybody and wanted re¬ 
venge; and that was before Gordon started working on me. 

“Well, I went to New Orleans. No one with the 
proper qualifications answered my card in the Journal , so 
I came here to see what I could see. I had no well laid 
plans of any sort. I was not sure of myself either; but when 
my old office girl failed to recognize me, a wild idea came 

[i95l 



The Man With the Face 


to me at once. Why not try to fill the place, myself, my 
new self? 

“I was glad to meet you at Rector’s that night. In 
fact, I went there for that purpose. I was afraid, too, but 
I wanted to test my disguise, and you played into my hands 
very nicely. I just drifted along, not certain that you did 
not recognize me, but determined not to betray myself. I 
was delighted when you permitted me to announce my 
name; and I selected Mortell because that was about the 
only thing I had foreseen — the name. I had thought of 
practicing again; or, at least, to profit by any advantage that 
might come from announcing myself as an attorney; and, 
as you know, the rules of practice, now-a-days, make it 
pretty difficult to qualify; so by changing three letters in 
my old credentials, I could turn the trick and make use of 
my old certificates. In a word, I forged my own name.” 

He paused and looked inquiringly at Bellamy. 

Bellamy winked knowingly. “I can lay claim with 
perfect truthfulness to having discovered your motive, the 
minute I decided upon your identity; but continue.” 

“When you invited me to reveal myself, next morning, 
you put me in a hole, but I was convinced that you did not 
know me, after all. What was I to do? I had been very 
indiscreet. I did some rapid thinking. I thought you would 
recognize me sooner or later, and meanwhile, I could have a 
little fun with you. That was the weak link in my chain — 
accepting a ready-made history from you. From the stand¬ 
point of having fun with you, I mean. The proposition 
which I made you must convince you, now, how greatly 
I needed you and how absolutely I trusted you. I knew you 
would never betray me without warning. How unnecessary 
was my deceit! How much more honorable, had I come out 

[196] 




Mortell Decides to Stay 


boldly; but it may be that a new destiny over which I was 
not always master, led me on.” 

“Of course, it did,” Bellamy agreed. “There was 
nothing wrong in your conduct. You followed the lines of 
least resistance; that’s all.” 

Mortell wrinkled his brow and looked reflectively 
from one corner of the room to another. “I am glad you 
are so magnanimous.” 

“Magnanimous nothing,” Bellamy snapped. “A fel¬ 
low has to be a sport, hasn’t he?” he asked, impatiently. 
“Go on.” 

Mortell wrinkled his brow again. 

“Standing was not long in taking my measure; but I 
was fortunate enough to be able to turn him from an enemy 
into a friend. I am glad of that.” 

Bellamy chuckled self-consciously and shook his head 
admiringly. “We have to give it to you again. I would 
have made a mess of such a situation. You certainly took 
a long chance at the rehearsal, though.” 

“I had a purpose. That was a challenge to all of you. 
I wanted to learn if anyone else did question my identity.” 

Bellamy shook his head again. “You’re a deep one.” 

Mortell smiled. “You are an awful Blarney, Fred. 
But to get back to Standing; he could have remained here 
safely enough, but didn’t want to do so. You can readily 
imagine why. He has a splendid command of the Spanish 
language. In a year or two, there will be another lawyer 
in Buenos x4ires. I have loaned him a few dollars, for he 
insisted upon making good his shortcomings; and strangely 
enough, it will be possible to turn enough business his way 
to get him nicely started. He will make good.” 

“I am sure he will,” Bellamy echoed. “I don’t care 

[i97] 



The Man With the Face 


how scientists explain, or philosophers argue, there is an 
eternal equation in nature, and a generous deed is never 
wasted.” 

Mortell accepted the praise without protest. For a 
few minutes he was silent. Then he turned anxiously to his 
friend. “What more can I tell you? You know the rest. 
What have you to say?” 

Bellamy had more to do than to say. “Now that 
scientific description of your operation — where might it 
be?” he asked. 

Mortell twisted uneasily and looked uncomfortable as 
he drew out a dozen pages of typewritten paper, folded to 
fit an inside coat pocket, crumpled and soiled from much 
handling and carrying about; and handed them to his friend. 

Bellamy ran his eyes over the first page. 

“You have not taken good care of this. I suppose 
Gordon has a copy?” 

Mortell snapped his fingers. “He has not. He 
promised not to write a word about it for publication. He 
doesn’t need the advertising. You are mistaken if you think 
I have not taken good care of it. I have taken too good 
care of it. It has been on my person every minute since I 
was slugged. I didn’t want anyone else to get it.” 

“Then this document is the only tangible evidence of 
your transformation?” 

Mortell nodded. 

Bellamy had been moving about the room during his 
examination of the document and now leaned against the 
mantle of the empty fireplace. Before Mortell could divine 
his purpose, he lighted a match and the pages flashed up in 
flames. 

“Here, wait. What are you doing?” Mortell de- 
[198] 



Mortell Decides to Stay 


manded, rushing forward, a helpless witness of the destruc¬ 
tion. 

“Cremating the remains of one Ralph Mandell,” 
Bellamy dryly replied, letting the blazing sheets fall in a 
charred mass upon the hungry grate. 

He turned upon the puzzled man with a face of 
prophecy and finality. 

“ ‘Look not mournfully to the past. 

It comes not back again. 

Go forth to meet the shadowy future with a manly 
heart.’ ” 

Mortell was unable to speak. He dropped into his 
big chair again, trying vainly, in a man’s way, to hide his 
feelings. Bellamy turned the lights lower and backed his 
chair against the fireplace, where, he was determined, the 
unnecessary fears of his wavering protege should be for¬ 
ever interred. 

“As I told you,” he continued with studied emphasis, 
“my eyes have not been blind. My ear has been to the 
ground. I have assumed a quiet guardianship over you; 
for don’t you see, in a way, I am your parent, since you are 
the offspring of my hitherto useless imagination? No one 
believes your little tale about meeting Mandell in New 
Orleans. No one believes he ever went there. People give 
you credit for trying to save his name from the stigma of 
self destruction, but they are positive he destroyed himself. 

“Therefore he is destroyed. He was never necessary. 
What Gordon did should have been done by the Japanese 
surgeons. If man be created in the image of his Maker, 
every scar, every disfigurement, and every deformity is the 
‘evil that men do living after them.’ When beauty and 
purity do not go together nature lies. 

[i99] 


, 286 376 



The Man With the Face 


“Your ordeal was not a mistake nor a waste. When 
we feel that we are blundering along in our crude fallible 
way, it may be God’s way to teach a wonderful lesson. You 
have earned the privilege you longed for, to live your own 
life, and it will be a better and finer life. The world has 
given its consent. You are doubly assured. 

“ ‘For the Lord seeth not as man seeth, 

For man looketh on the outward appearance, 

But the Lord looketh on the heart.’ ” 

Mortell tried no longer to hide his feelings. “You are 
a very persuasive pleader, Fred,” he promptly acknowl¬ 
edged. 

Thus Mortell accepted the word of his friend, and 
made his decision in a consistently professional manner. 
















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